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“Carlo, I know I’ve told you this before, don’t act like you don’t remember. If there’s one thing we all agreed on from the start, it’s that Sorbet and I work best as a pair.”
Gelato has their associate on speakerphone from the kitchen bar as Sorbet dices tomatoes by the sink, lit by the rays of the evening sun. He’s accustomed to doing most of the arguing for them; Gelato’s rapid-fire native Italian is better suited for negotiations than Sorbet’s slower Slovak-accented speech. Sorbet will typically jump in when he feels there’s a point to be made.
“Gelato, you know this order isn’t coming from me,” comes Carlo’s slightly staticky voice through the earpiece. “I mean, I agree with you guys, your whole… arrangement’s been settled on from the beginning.”
“Until someone went and changed the terms of it.”
“This is coming from way over my head, Gelato, you gotta understand that. Passione’s recruiting has been wildly successful, but that means there’s gonna be a lot of new blood in need of training. You two have plenty of experience from all your time in the business,” Carlo insists. “Really, it’s an honor to be chosen for something like this!”
He watches Sorbet sneer down at his cutting board, evidently feeling the same sentiment as Gelato.
“How exactly is it an honor to have to drag some upstart wannabe recruit around with us on all our missions?” Gelato complains. “We’re more than fine on our own.”
Sorbet gives a hum of agreement. “Who even is this guy, anyway? We didn’t recognize the name you sent us,” he says, projecting his voice in the direction of the phone receiver.
“Is that Sorbet? Have you got me on speakerphone?” Carlo’s exasperated sigh crackles through the phone. “Of course you do. When am I ever not talking to both of you at once?”
“Yeah, it’s safe to assume you’re always on speakerphone with us,” says Gelato.
“Look, his name is Risotto Nero. He’s twenty-one- “
“Oh, Christ, he’s a baby,” Gelato scoffs.
“Would you let me finish?”
Gelato snickers as Sorbet rolls his eyes mockingly in the ensuing pause.
“He’s twenty-one, and he’s been working in the organization for a few years already,” Carlo continues. “This kid is… different. He’s already carried out a few assignments on his own, but Polpo thinks he could use more expert hitman training. Trust me, I wouldn’t send him to you two if I didn’t think he had potential.”
“Do we get any say in the matter?” Sorbet asks, sweeping the diced tomatoes into a bowl with a flick of his knife. “What happens if we turn him down?”
“If you absolutely refuse to work with him, I guess Polpo will find someone else to take him. But I’m telling you, Sorbet, they’re gonna stick you guys with a trainee no matter what, whether it’s Risotto Nero or someone else. That’s how much fresh meat we’re dealing with right now.”
“Shit,” Gelato mutters under his breath. He props his head on his hand, steadying the phone against his shoulder.
“Look, just meet with him, okay? Give him a chance before you refuse him. I mean it when I say this kid has something special. You might end up liking him.”
“Mmm. Doubtful.”
Sorbet neatly sets aside the bowl of chopped tomatoes and raises his head to make eye contact with Gelato across the kitchen. All that needs to be said between them is communicated through a sigh and a twitch of Sorbet’s eyebrow.
After a long moment, Gelato gives a decisive nod and turns back to the phone. He’s endlessly grateful to have a partner who can read him with a single look.
“Fine, we’ll meet up with him,” says Gelato. “No promises beyond that. Set up a time for lunch with the kid this week.”
“I’m not your damn secretary,” Carlo grumbles.
“Thanks, sweetheart!” Gelato chirps sardonically. “Talk to you later.” He hangs up the phone and hops off the kitchen counter.
“Sorry, babe. Couldn’t talk him out of it.” Gelato crosses the kitchen to encircle his arms around Sorbet’s waist from behind. He knocks his forehead tiredly between Sorbet’s shoulder blades.
“Don’t apologize. You gave it your best shot,” Sorbet replies. The knife clinks as he places it back on the cutting board and clasps his hands over Gelato’s. “Nothing to be done about it now.”
Gelato chuckles lowly against his back. “Except scare away every trainee they throw in our direction.”
“Now that’s an idea.” Gelato can hear the smile in his words.
-
The kid isn’t hard to spot in the café downtown where they meet him; even in the bustling lunchtime rush, an albino like him stands out, his features as striking in person as in the photo Carlo sent. He’s folded his tall body into a corner booth, ducking his head like he’s conscious of all the stares his appearance brings him.
He gives Sorbet and Gelato a nod of recognition as they approach, straightening up from his hunched posture.
“You must be Sorbet and Gelato,” he says. His voice is so deep as to resemble that of a man well beyond his twenty-one years. “Carlo Sogliato informed me I’d be training under you.”
“And you’re Risotto Nero.” Gelato extends his hand first, knowing Sorbet likely won’t take the initiative with someone that he doesn’t yet respect. “Carlo may have gotten a little ahead of himself. We’ll be interviewing you to see if you’re a good fit for the team.”
Gelato critically sizes up Risotto as they slide into the booth across from him. He feels Sorbet’s arm settle instinctively around his shoulders and barely suppresses a smirk as he leans in against his partner. If this is enough to put the kid off, then they’re in luck. He’ll probably run back to Polpo and beg for a new set of mentors before his first mission.
Surprisingly, if Risotto Nero has any thoughts on the very obvious PDA occurring in front of him, he doesn’t voice them. Gelato shrugs off his lack of reaction and proceeds with the interview, pausing only to order food and drinks; Sorbet inquires here and there for more details on Risotto’s experience with various weapons and heists.
He hates to admit it, but Gelato’s beginning to get a sense of why Carlo thought this guy was different. His record is devoid of the usual pitfalls of young recruits- he has no gambling debts, no history of drunken fistfights, not a hint of the typical cockiness that plagues men of his age. He’s utterly stoic throughout the interview, just deferential enough not to come across as a suck-up.
The only time Risotto Nero reveals more than a flicker of emotion is when Sorbet asks him about his first kill.
Gelato sees Risotto’s interlocked fingers tense and twist. His odd crimson eyes go glassy in apparent remembrance, and just for a moment, his expression turns frighteningly cold. It sends chills down Gelato’s spine as he’s reminded that, even at this young age, the man who sits before them is a fellow killer.
“I was eighteen,” Risotto recounts. “It wasn’t a mob-associated hit, though I’d been involved with them for a few years by then.”
“It was personal, then?” Gelato asks. He’s intrigued by the idea of such an impassive person having a deadly grudge.
“Yes,” Risotto admits in that low, rumbling voice. “He was the drunk driver who killed my cousin.”
“Ah.”
“Tell us how you pulled it off,” says Sorbet. Gelato spares him a quizzical glance upon catching the keen note of interest in his voice.
“I lured him to the docks,” says Risotto flatly, “and slit his throat over the water. I took any identifying items off him before sinking his body to the riverbed. The police never found him.”
“Hmm,” says Gelato. Below the table, his fingers tap an excited rhythm against his thigh.
“If he was never found, how did Passione become aware of this killing?” Sorbet asks.
“I hadn’t known it, but the man had owed debts to the organization. Polpo had sent men out to take care of him, but I beat them to it. That’s when Polpo saw about promoting me.”
“Under, I assume, the condition of no more extracurricular killings.”
“Of course.”
All three men lapse into silence as their food is dropped off at their table. Gelato breathes in the aroma of his steaming soup as the waiter departs.
“I won’t insult you by treating you as though you’re new to this business,” says Gelato. “But you know the kind of work that Sorbet and I do requires a certain… distance, emotionally speaking.”
“We can’t allow our personal interests to interfere with our assignments,” Sorbet adds. “We kill who we’re paid to kill. That’s it.”
“That won’t be a problem,” Risotto states with finality. “There was only ever one man I needed to exact justice upon, and that’s been done already.”
The way he speaks- quiet, but steady and authoritative- makes it difficult not to believe him. He’s a frustratingly compelling figure, even in the mundane setting of this café, crushed into a booth too small for his frame.
Maybe this kid really does have some kind of potential.
Sorbet evidently thinks so, too. Gelato’s man has never had an issue making people aware of his disapproval; his brutal honesty is one of his best qualities, in Gelato’s opinion. Yet if the way he interacts with Risotto is any indication, he seems to consider him as mature and intelligent as Gelato takes him to be.
“Right, then.” Sorbet concludes his current line of questioning before turning to Gelato, who gives the slightest tip of his chin to his partner before addressing Risotto.
“We can take you on for our next mission. It’ll involve the long-range elimination of a gangster who’s been causing Passione some troubles. Drug trades outside the traditional routes, skimming off the top, you know the sort.”
Risotto gives a somber nod.
“Bring whatever weapon you’re most proficient with,” Gelato instructs him. “We’ll most likely have you learning and observing, but once you’ve got a few missions under your belt, you’ll be able to start handling hits on your own. Capisci?”
“Understood,” says Risotto. “When do we start?”
Gelato can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips.
“I dig the zeal, kid.” He reaches across the table to shake Risotto’s hand. Sorbet follows suit this time.
“Pleasure to work with you, Risotto Nero.”
-
The setting sun beams through the tall window frames that once held glass, illuminating the outlines of countless warehouses along the riverbanks. Gelato sighs with relief as he eases the heavy rifle case off his shoulder and onto the floor of the abandoned factory stairwell.
“Is that the Zastava M91?” Sorbet peers over his shoulder as Gelato sets to work assembling the rifle from its case.
“Yep!”
“Good choice.”
“It’s been so long since we brought her out.” Gelato cuddles the barrel close and flashes Sorbet a pout. “I figured she might be getting lonely, y’know?”
Sorbet smiles indulgently as he passes Gelato his earpiece.
“Is Risotto all set up in his position?” Gelato inquires.
“Yes, but we should check in with him when the target’s closer to arriving.”
They exchange their customary kiss for luck before Sorbet departs for the rooftop, his rifle case in hand. Gelato waits until the sound of his footsteps on the stairs fades before he gets into position, propping the bottom of the window open just enough to get a view of the building outside.
The warehouse door is clear; Sorbet will have eyes on the fire escape, and Risotto will be watching from the cargo bay where they left him after making their way through a warren of alleyways. Any civilians have long since returned home for dinner; the streets are empty and eerily silent.
“Risotto, are you there?”
Sorbet’s voice is abruptly in his ear.
“Yes,” comes their trainee’s answer. “No movement by the bay doors yet.”
“Good. It’s unlikely they’ll make their entrance from there,” Gelato tells him, “but be prepared all the same.”
This will be a test of Risotto’s patience as well as his skill. Sorbet and Gelato are both accustomed to the long hours of careful watching and waiting that are as essential to this job as the brief seconds of decisive action. If Risotto can’t handle that, he’s not cut out to be a hitman.
Before Gelato’s eyes, the evening sky turns to watercolor pinks and purples, all reflected on the river. Their visibility is poor beyond the floodlights under which their target will have to pass to reach the front door. They’ll have to make the most of those few scarce moments of clear illumination.
“Headlights incoming.” Sorbet’s familiar voice emanates through Gelato’s earpiece. “The entourage is approaching.”
“How will we know which car is his?” It’s the first real question Risotto has asked them since the mission began.
“We won’t,” Gelato answers him. “There’s no way to tell until they start opening the doors to file in. That means we need to spot him and get sights on him extremely quickly.”
“Then why am I at the bay doors?”
“In case they try to sneak him in back there. Which they still might. Now hush!”
Gelato scans each head that pops out of the cars through his scope, searching for a haircut and silhouette that match the photos from the file.
“Where are you, where are you,” he hears Sorbet muttering to himself as he does the same.
Then, as the passengers of the third car in the lineup begin to exit, Gelato spots him.
“Fuck, there he is,” he says into the speaker. “Third car, second guy climbing out from the back. Black suit, same as the others, god damn it.”
“They’re in my way!” he hears Sorbet growl in frustration.
The men on either side of their target- bodyguards, most likely- block him with their shoulders, bracketing him in as they head for the door. Gelato would shoot clear through their heads if he could, but they’d been instructed to leave no collateral damage. No one else is to die tonight.
“I can’t get a clear shot!” he tells Sorbet.
They’re passing under the floodlights as Sorbet curses under his breath.
“Do boha!”
“What’s going on?” comes Risotto’s voice.
“Bodyguards,” Gelato grunts, frantically shifting his scope, “blocking the damn target.”
“Too late,” says Sorbet. The door swings open, and as Gelato watches through the scope, the man they’ve been assigned to kill is hurried inside.
Gelato lets out a long, controlled breath and squeezes his eyes shut.
“There’s no helping it. We’ll need to reposition and prepare for when he leaves the meeting,” he says into the speaker.
“Shit luck tonight,” Sorbet comments.
“You can say that again. Hey, Risotto, stay where you are for now. Sorbet and I are going to look for a better sniping lookout.”
There’s no response over the earpiece.
“Risotto?”
“Hey, kid,” Sorbet’s irritated voice comes through. “Gelato’s giving you instructions. You listening?”
More silence is all that greets him.
“The fuck?” Gelato mutters. “Did he get jumped or something?”
“So much for having a trainee,” Sorbet replies grimly.
“Seriously, Sorbet, should we go check?”
“I don’t see why we should. If he can’t take care of himself, then he- wait, what was that?”
“What was what? Sorbet?”
“I’m fine,” comes his partner’s response, and Gelato breathes a quick sigh of relief. “But something happened in the building. Check through your scope if you can.”
Gelato stabilizes the rifle once more and peers through the scope.
“Did you see that?”
“See what?” Gelato’s heart rate accelerates.
“The lights in that top window just went out.”
Just as Sorbet finishes his sentence, a bloodcurdling scream sounds out from the meetinghouse.
“What the fuck?”
“Risotto, come in!” Gelato hisses into the speaker.
He catches the distant sound of smashing glass.
“Jesus- “
“What did he do?”
Gelato’s scope pivots back and forth, feverishly scanning the front of the building for any sign of action. His finger flexes on the trigger.
He comes close to shooting the first person to burst through the front doors, but he’s far too tall to be their target. Gelato watches in puzzlement as the man flees to a car, tugging desperately at the door.
A crowd of people follows shortly after him- nearly the entire entourage, by Gelato’s estimation. He curses as he surveys the fleeing group through his sights, but their man is nowhere to be seen.
“What the hell is going on?” Sorbet mutters.
“Risotto! Pick up, damn it!”
Gelato nearly pisses himself with shock when he feels a sudden touch on his shoulder.
“Gelato,” comes a hushed voice. “It’s me. I made it back.”
Risotto Nero stands calmly over him, his black hoodie splattered with some wet substance. A streak of red stands out against his pallid neck.
“Risotto!”
“What happened?” Sorbet jumps in over the earpiece.
“He’s here, Sorbet, come down from the roof.”
Gelato wriggles out of his sniping position and leaps to his feet, which still doesn’t do much to correct for the absurd height difference between himself and Risotto. As Sorbet’s footsteps pound down the stairs, Gelato rips the earpiece out of his ear.
“What happened?” Gelato demands. “Why did you go silent?”
“I apologize,” says Risotto. “I had to remain quiet in order to take out the target.”
“To take out the- wait, you killed him?”
“Yes,” Risotto states evenly.
“How?”
“I was able to sneak into the meetinghouse and kill him in close quarters.”
“No one saw me,” he adds as Gelato gapes like a hooked fish.
“You- you’re fucking with me.”
Risotto stares down at him, his crimson eyes placid.
“Gelato!”
He whips around to see Sorbet sprinting down the stairs, his rifle case slung over his shoulder.
“Sorbet, he says he killed the guy- “
“What?”
“Sorbet,” Risotto addresses him. “I was able to eliminate the target. The mission is completed.”
Sorbet’s features twist savagely as his eyes go wide. Suddenly, the handgun that normally rests on his hip is in his hand and pointed directly at Risotto.
“What the fuck are you playing at?” he growls.
“Sorbet!”
Both Gelato and Risotto call out his name at nearly the same moment.
“No, I want an explanation.” Sorbet takes a firm step to place his body protectively in front of Gelato. “Tell me exactly what you did. Now.”
Risotto’s hands are raised placatingly before him. Gelato catches a glimpse of shock on his face, the plainest emotion he’s seen spelled out there since they met.
“I- I thought it would be best to kill him inside the building,” Risotto stammers. “You yourselves said there would be only a limited window of opportunity between the door and his car on his way out.”
“How. Did. You. Do it.” Sorbet grits out. His eyes don’t leave Risotto’s face.
“I slipped inside,” says Risotto. “I found him away from his guards, alone by the bathroom. I cut his throat from behind him. Everyone must have fled when they found the body.”
“Bullshit! Those guards were glued to his side all the way to the door, and you’re telling me they just abandoned him inside?”
“They were… nearby,” says Risotto. “I managed to kill him without making any noise. I had to smash a window to get out, there were people who would’ve seen me take the route I used to get in- “
“That’s not possible.”
“Sorbet.”
Sorbet’s hands barely quiver on the gun when he hears Gelato speak.
“Look, maybe we should get out of here before the cops come crawling around,” Gelato tries. “Risotto can explain his methods later.”
“No.” Sorbet’s shoulders rise and fall with his rapid breaths, but he doesn’t lower the gun. “None of this adds up. He’s lying.”
“Why would I lie?”
“Because you’re not Passione.” Sorbet’s voice is low and dangerous. “You’re a plant.”
“Sorbet, what are you accusing him of?”
“Come on, Gelato, his whole story’s too good to be true. Twenty-one with no failed missions, not a single slip-up? He’s here to scope out our weaknesses!”
“That’s not- “
“Who sent you?” Sorbet barks, cutting Risotto off. “Was it Cosa Nostra?”
“Sorbet, we have no proof of that!”
“Think about it, Gelato!” Sorbet’s voice wavers. “He shows up with a perfect background, disappears mid-mission to scare off the entire group, then claims he’s killed the target and we can go home?”
“I’m sorry,” says Risotto. “I should have gotten your approval, but I took the opening while I had it.”
“You can check with your sources once we get back,” he adds when Sorbet remains silent. “I promise you, the man is dead.”
“Sorbet, honey.” Gelato takes a hesitant step forward and places his hand on Sorbet’s elbow. Sorbet’s head swivels to face him, surprise and betrayal written across his features.
“Let’s just… all take a step back, okay?”
“If you want to interrogate me, you’re free to do it in the car.” Risotto’s hands remain in the air by his head as he speaks. “But Gelato’s right. We should leave the scene before any authorities arrive and block our way out.”
“And give you another chance to stab us in the back? I don’t think so.”
When he sees Sorbet tighten his grip on the gun, Gelato steps impulsively between the two of them, forming a shield with his own body.
“Sorbet,” he pleads, “you’re not thinking straight.”
Sorbet’s eyes bulge out.
“You believe him over me?” Sorbet’s voice is a wounded whisper.
“Baby, please, just lower the gun. We’ll talk this over once we get out of here, okay?”
Gelato keeps his gaze locked on Sorbet’s face as the handgun sinks inch by inch until it dangles from Sorbet’s limp arms.
“This is a mistake,” Sorbet murmurs.
Risotto is the first to move, stepping silently around the two of them to begin his descent down the stairs.
“Let’s go,” says Gelato.
-
The car ride back is the tensest of Gelato’s life.
Sorbet insists on sitting in the back with Risotto, which leaves Gelato to drive. In the rear-view mirror, Sorbet glares darkly at their trainee, his hand ready and waiting by his holster.
Risotto, perhaps wisely, remains silent as Gelato navigates the roads at the outskirts of the city, heading back toward more populated neighborhoods. His gaze bores through the window. Gelato considers turning on the radio, then thinks better of it.
All three of them jump in their seats when Gelato’s phone buzzes with an incoming text.
“Sorbet, could you get that for me?” Gelato keeps his eyes on the road as Sorbet leans forward to fish through Gelato’s bag in the passenger seat.
“Says it’s from Carlo,” Sorbet states shortly.
“What’s it say?”
“It reads, uh,” Sorbet squints at the screen, “Well done. Polpo will be wanting a full report soon.”
“Well done?”
In the backseat, Risotto’s head snaps up hopefully.
“So he’s saying the target- Lorenzo, or whatever his name was- he’s dead? The word’s out already?”
“Don’t know what else he could mean,” Sorbet grudgingly admits.
“As I said,” Risotto speaks quietly, “I killed him and evaded his guards.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sorbet cuts in quickly. Gelato can tell without looking how flustered he is. He hates being embarrassed more than nearly anything else. “Now if only you had a halfway plausible story about how you did it.”
Risotto doesn’t speak up again for the remainder of the ride.
Hotels this cheap don’t usually bother to staff the lobby around the clock, so it’s empty by the time they park and head inside. Their footsteps echo out on the stairs as they trudge up to the third floor.
Gelato has to pat down his pockets for a half-minute until he retrieves the key to the room the three of them share. In hindsight, not getting a separate room for Risotto was a disastrous consequence of their thriftiness, but neither he nor Sorbet could have predicted how the night would turn out.
Sorbet drags their suitcase onto a luggage stand as Risotto deposits his small duffel bag on the ground inside.
“I’m just, uh. Going to go get something to eat,” says Risotto, awkwardly jerking his thumb at the door.
“Yeah, you do that,” Sorbet spits.
Gelato can only watch as the young man makes his hurried retreat.
“Sorbet, listen to me,” he starts as soon as the door slams shut.
“I can’t believe you took his side!” Sorbet’s expression is vicious as he whips around to face Gelato. His hands ball into fists at his sides.
“I didn’t take his side, I just wanted to get us out of there! Do you really think it was a smart idea to have a fucking showdown right there at the scene of the crime?”
As Gelato speaks, Sorbet pinches at the bridge of his hooked nose, scrunching his eyes shut.
“And now he’s spending the night here,” he cuts in as if he hasn’t heard a word Gelato’s said, “probably a spy, liable to kill us both in our sleep - “
“Oh, come on, you can’t honestly believe that- “
“Why not? Why shouldn’t I be suspicious?” Sorbet begins pacing the narrow space between the two queen beds as he speaks. He runs his hands through his hair in his aggravation, displacing the carefully gelled strands. “Some guy we barely know goes missing mid-mission, then turns up after making the kill with some flimsy excuse?”
“Look, he’s new, he doesn’t understand how we do things.”
“How can you trust him?” Sorbet wheels on him, his eyes wild. “How can you trust him over me?”
Sorbet’s words hit him like a rifle butt to the chest. Gelato feels his shoulders slump with the impact.
“Sorbet, honey, I don’t, there’s no one I trust more than you.” He takes a few staggering steps towards Sorbet but falters when that fire flares up again in Sorbet’s eyes.
“It’s supposed to be us,” Sorbet hisses, “us over everyone else. We’re supposed to be a united front, you and me. Always together, always on each other’s side.”
“Baby, we are- “
“Did you forget that?” Sorbet’s accent is growing stronger like it always does when he’s worked up like this.
“Of course not!”
“Then why didn’t you listen to me?”
“What was I supposed to do, just stand back and let you shoot the new recruit?” Gelato vaguely registers the way his hands are flying before him, gesturing emphatically the same way his mother always did in her endless arguments with his father. “Polpo’d have our heads!”
“You know I’m right.” Sorbet’s expression is fierce. His teeth are bared like a predator’s. “There’s something off about this Risotto Nero.”
“We have no proof of that!”
“And now that fucking newbie’s seen us fight. He’ll report right back to whoever he’s informing, to ‘Ndrangheta or Cosa Nostra, he’ll tell them that Sorbet and Gelato are weak- “
“For God’s sake- “
“We’re already vulnerable, Gelato!” Sorbet’s voice trembles almost imperceptibly. “Passione barely tolerates us; do you really think they’d bother to protect us if a rival gang came calling?”
“Sorbet, please.” Gelato forces his voice to soften. “I know you’re scared- “
“I’m not scared!”
“You’re being cautious, but it’s making you paranoid!”
“All I want is to protect you, Gelato!” Sorbet’s face crumples momentarily into something desperate and feral. “Like you did for me.”
God, it breaks Gelato’s heart to argue with his love.
“Sorbet. Sweetheart. I know that.”
Sorbet’s frame sags in response to Gelato’s soothing tone.
“But we have no choice but to stick with Risotto for now,” Gelato urges him. “There’s no other way.”
“There is another way. You know what it is.”
“We cannot do that.”
“We could make it look like an accident,” Sorbet insists.
“Just because you think he’s shifty?”
“If our roles were swapped,” Sorbet snarls, “I’d do it in a heartbeat. I’d do whatever you said, whatever would keep us safe.”
Sorbet’s words get his hackles up.
“If you’re accusing me of not protecting you,” Gelato argues, “you’re dead wrong. I may act like it’s all a grand old time out in the field, but I watch your back just the same way you watch mine. I take this shit seriously, Sorbet.”
“I’m not saying that. I’m saying you’re not prioritizing us,” Sorbet shoots back.
“What else is there to prioritize when I’ve centered my whole life around you?”
Gelato can feel himself trembling with fervency. There’s no suppressing it; he’s angry now, and he loathes every second of it, every moment he spends arguing with the only person who fucking matters to him.
“I can’t- ,” He scrubs his hands over his face. “I’m not doing this. We’re not killing Risotto.”
Sorbet’s eyes look black under his knit-together brows. “I guess what you say goes, if you’re calling the shots now.”
Gelato rubs at his temples and bites back a heated retort.
“Fine,” says Sorbet. “I’m taking a shower.”
Gelato stands rooted to the hotel carpet as Sorbet storms past him, pausing only to rip a set of pajamas free from their suitcase where it perches on a stand.
He collapses heavily onto the edge of the bed and listens to the water run.
Sometimes Gelato wishes either of them had a real friend they could talk to. It’s unbearably lonely to be cut off from his only company in this world made up of the two of them, orbiting forever in each other’s pull.
-
He wakes gradually, as the bars of yellow light that emanate from the bathroom door begin to permeate his eyelids. Gelato squints in annoyance- he’s sure he’d shut that light off. Beside him, Sorbet continues to rest undisturbed.
They’d gone to bed without speaking a word to each other. A melancholy space still stretches between their bodies.
A sudden sound rings from behind the illuminated bathroom door, like someone coughing. Retching, rather. It’s an ugly, guttural noise.
Gelato looks to the other hotel bed across from the one he shares with Sorbet, but the rumpled blankets leave it unclear as to whether or not Risotto is still there. He’d come in late as Gelato had lain awake, staring miserably at the ceiling.
Keeping his eyes trained on the lit doorway, Gelato slides his legs across the mattress, lowering them until his bare feet touch the floor. He reaches slowly for his Beretta, safely holstered on his nightstand. Can’t be too careful in this business.
Another heaving cough sounds out from the bathroom, its door just slightly ajar. Gelato’s eyes widen as the coughing is followed by the sound of something metallic cascading off ceramic, like shells hitting pavement. Gun in hand, he creeps toward the doorway, approaching from the side. His heart thuds in his ears.
Gelato’s eyes have barely adjusted to the light by the time he’s able to glimpse the scene inside. Risotto’s massive form is crumpled in front of the toilet, gagging violently, his body convulsing. Gelato gasps when he sees the blood speckling the dingy bathroom mirror, dripping from the toilet’s cistern and the wall behind it. With no enemy apparent, he clicks the gun’s safety back on and stumbles forward.
“Risotto!” he hisses. The man raises his head and turns to Gelato.
“Shit!” Gelato nearly jumps a foot in the air when he sees Risotto’s face.
“It’s okay,” Risotto murmurs. He raises a hand into the space between them, more blood oozing from his lips.
“Just put down the gun, please,” says Risotto. Gelato lowers it, steeling his hands to cease their trembling.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispers. “What the hell happened to your eyes?”
“My- my eyes?” Risotto raises a hand toward his face, then straightens up to turn to the blood-flecked mirror. “Are they- oh.”
Risotto’s sclerae are ink-black, inhuman. His crimson irises were already startling, but the darkness surrounding them is a new horror on its own.
“Don’t be alarmed. This happens sometimes,” says Risotto, as he examines his transformed eyes in the mirror. A small, hysterical part of Gelato wants to laugh at his unfazed tone.
The more he looks around the bathroom behind Risotto, the less he’s able to comprehend. There’s blood spattered on the tiles in small amounts and razor blades scattered on the toilet seat and the ground between Risotto’s knees. They’re small, like the kind used to cut lines of coke. Gelato feels intensely like he’s in some kind of fever dream. He presses his free hand to his forehead.
“Gelato?” comes a sleep-slurred voice from behind him. “What’s going o- oh fuck!”
Risotto sucks in a breath, whirling to face the doorway. Sorbet has appeared by Gelato’s side, eyes wide and mouth agape as he surveys the scene.
“Sorbet, please stay calm- “
Risotto stands and starts to speak, only to break off mid-sentence as his face twists. He turns to hunch over the sink and, as Sorbet and Gelato watch, proceeds to cough up about seven or eight straight-blade razors, the same kind as Gelato had seen on the toilet seat. They clatter into the sink, clanging one by one, until they’re caught by the drain. Risotto’s back heaves as he clutches as the sides of the sink, looking even paler than usual. There’s an odd shimmer to his skin, like sweat but not quite liquid. It seems to make patches of him go transparent, but that must be a trick of the light.
“Uh,” says Gelato.
“What the fuck,” says Sorbet.
For a while, the only noise in the room is the sound of Risotto’s ragged breaths.
“I’m calling an ambulance,” says Sorbet, blinking dazedly as he turns to head for the hotel room phone. “I don’t know what the hell you did to yourself, but you need a hospital.”
“No!”
Sorbet stops short, and Gelato freezes mid-step, about to follow him. Risotto’s thrown one arm out, his other hand hovering over his mouth. He looks smaller like this, in a red-spattered t-shirt and dark sweatpants, barefoot on the cold tiles.
“Don’t call anyone. I’m not sick. I’ll be okay.”
“Then what the fuck is all- this?” Gelato gestures with an emphatic spread of his arms to the entire bathroom.
“I can explain it to both of you, if you’ll give me a minute.” Risotto draws in a deep breath, then lets it out in a long shudder. “But I’m not- we’re not in any danger here.”
Sorbet hesitates for a moment before returning to Gelato’s side in the doorway.
“I’m not seeing things, right?” Gelato mutters to his partner.
Sorbet shakes his head slowly. “I saw those razors too.” They stare together at Risotto’s broad back as he splashes water on his face. He stands still in front of the mirror for a while, eyes closed, looking as if he’s fighting back something. Then, finally, he relaxes, shoulders sagging.
“You want to tell us what’s going on?” Sorbet asks. Risotto turns back to them, leaning heavily against the sink. Gelato hears Sorbet hiss in a breath as he takes in those altered sclerae. They seem a little lighter than before, but not fully back to their original white.
Risotto hangs his head, his translucent eyelashes fluttering momentarily. “You won’t believe me.”
“Unless we’re all going through some kind of group hallucination,” Gelato says, “We just saw you cough up a bunch of razor blades into that sink. So try us.”
He stares Risotto down until something in his face gives. Gelato then moves past him to grab a towel from the rack, abruptly conscious of his surroundings again. He wets it at the sink and hands it to Risotto, who hesitates before taking it to mop the blood from around his mouth and chin. Whatever affliction had overtaken him moments before seems to have passed. In the doorway beside him, Sorbet peers curiously around the bathroom.
“Do you remember when Polpo called me in for a meeting?” says Risotto at last, clasping the stained hotel towel between his oversized hands, eyes downcast.
Sorbet nods. “Yeah, it was after one of our planning sessions for this mission. You never mentioned what he wanted with you.”
“I didn’t know until after I got there. He told me he had a test for me.”
“What kind of test?” Gelato presses.
“Something that would assess my potential to see if I was suited for the higher echelons of the organization. He… it’s difficult to explain.”
“Try anyway,” says Sorbet. His voice is still tight with suspicion even as his face remains neutral.
“He told me I needed to keep a lighter lit for a full twenty-four hours,” Risotto says, “to pass the test. When I inevitably failed and had to re-light it, this… apparition showed up. It was humanoid, wearing a Venetian costume, but in its mouth there was an arrow. It attacked me and pierced me with it.”
Sorbet raises a skeptical eyebrow, crossing his arms.
“Look, if you don’t believe me-,“ Risotto starts.
“No, no, we believe you.” Gelato’s quick to hold out a pacifying hand, his gaze darting nervously between Risotto and Sorbet. “Keep talking.”
Risotto’s eyes narrow, but he continues.
“I was injured, but I returned to Polpo. He seemed confused, like he was expecting me to be changed in some way. I didn’t feel any different,” Risotto explains in that low, even tone. “At first. Then, things started to happen that I couldn’t explain.”
As Gelato and Sorbet watch, Risotto carefully plucks one of the straight razors from the sink. He holds the back of his left hand out toward them and, before Gelato can even open his mouth to protest, draws the razor across his skin in one quick motion.
“It was only when I injured myself that I figured it out.”
Blood blooms lazily up from the cut. As Risotto tilts his hand, one bead begins to trickle slowly toward his thumb. Gelato’s leaning in, some stupefied question on the tip of his tongue, when something moves within the droplet.
He has to blink a few times to confirm they’re there. Tiny and silvery, like liquid mercury in those science videos Gelato had seen as a kid, they bubble from the thin stream of blood. They move, swaying as one. They stretch out little tendrils from their sides, eyelike pits forming above them.
And then he hears it-
Looooooooaaaaaaaaad
A new sound in the dead quiet of the midnight hotel, emanating unmistakably from the slit on the back of Risotto’s hand. From those liquid silver droplets.
“They live in my blood,” says Risotto over the low hum. “They’re in every sample I’ve checked.”
“What… are they?” Sorbet breathes after a long silence.
Risotto tilts his hand again, examining the strange parasites with clear fascination in his eyes.
“I don’t know. But I’m certain they’re responsible for the changes I’ve undergone.”
“What changes? Puking up razors?” Gelato asks, incredulous.
“That seems to be a side effect,” says Risotto. “For now, at least. Until I can get this under control.”
“So what we saw,” Sorbet interjects, his eyes wide, “that was some kind of… flare-up? They’re hurting you?”
“Not hurting me. Helping me.”
“And how are they doing that?”
By way of response, Risotto extends his hand over the stained bathroom sink, brow furrowed as he stares into the basin. Then the stopper in the drain of the sink- Gelato’s mouth falls wide open- the fucking stopper is levitating up from the basin, smoothly rising until it meets Risotto’s hand.
To his left, Sorbet makes a choked-off noise.
“It’s something to do with magnetism, from what I can tell,” Risotto’s saying, his voice wavering just barely with some suppressed emotion. “It attracts anything that contains iron. I’ve been practicing with it.”
Gelato has to glance over at Sorbet then, just to see his own emotions reflected in his eyes. Sorbet’s face spells out astonished curiosity, but there’s no hint of fear there at what they’ve witnessed. The sight of his partner is enough to calm Gelato.
“When you disappeared today,” Sorbet begins slowly, turning back to Risotto. “Was that something to do with these things? Can you… kill with them?”
Risotto nods, a shadow of guilt crossing his face.
“They also allow me to camouflage myself, so I was able to slip into the building unseen and kill the target. I ripped the iron from his blood before his bodyguards even realized he’d stopped walking with them. I… suppose I thought I could earn your trust by completing the mission for you.”
“So, you’re like, uh, Magneto mixed with Ghost?”
Both Sorbet and Risotto turn to stare at Gelato.
“What?” He can feel himself flushing under their combined scrutiny.
“Who are- “ Sorbet starts, just as Risotto says “I don’t know either of those people.”
“Seriously? Marvel Comics?”
Sorbet’s brow creases. Risotto just blinks a few times.
“Look, I’m just trying to put this into an understandable context!”
“We’ll work on my pop culture knowledge later,” says Sorbet, his lips twitching. It’s the first time he’s even come close to smiling since that afternoon. Gelato feels a wave of relief wash over him at the sight of it.
Sorbet directs his next statement to Risotto. “I believe an apology is in order.”
“I don’t blame you for reacting the way you did,” Risotto replies serenely. “You were trying to protect him.” He inclines his head in Gelato’s direction.
Sorbet’s face twitches.
“You should have told us,” he says in a rush. “If you’d just been honest from the beginning- “
“You would have thought I was insane.”
“Not if you’d demonstrated it.”
“Then you would have reported me,” Risotto says. “To Polpo.”
“Wait,” says Gelato, holding up a hand. “You mean to say he still doesn’t know about this?”
Risotto shakes his silvery head.
“I know he keeps records on all his men. He didn’t question how I made it back with the lighter, but he suspects something.”
“But why not tell him, if he’s got something similar with that… Venetian arrow ghost?”
“Because Risotto’s a threat.” Sorbet’s voice is thoughtful when he speaks, his gaze still on Risotto. “If this ability is what he says it is, then he’s too powerful for Polpo to control.”
When Risotto lifts his head, his expression is sincere.
“You understand the situation I’m in.”
As Sorbet and Gelato watch, Risotto straightens up, his bloodied hands falling to his sides.
“I know we haven’t been working together long,” he says, “but I’m going to ask you this all the same. Keep my secret. It’s the only defense I have against Polpo and the other higher-ups.”
“Please,” he adds after a moment, as though it’s physically paining him to plead like this.
Gelato jumps when he feels Sorbet take him by the arm.
“Give us a moment,” says Sorbet.
Before Gelato can object, Sorbet’s tugging him through the doorway, shutting the bathroom door behind him.
“Sorbet!”
“Keep your voice down.”
Sorbet stalks to the other end of the hotel room, pacing back and forth in his soft sleep clothes. Without its usual styling gel, his hair falls freely across his forehead.
“This is- “
“Unreal, yes, I know,” Sorbet finishes his sentence. “How did we get mixed up in this mess?”
“You were right to be suspicious,” Gelato admits. “There was something strange about him from the start.”
“While I always enjoy being told I’m right,” says Sorbet, the ghost of a smirk passing over his face, “I was off the mark here. He’s not a spy.”
Gelato taps his fingers nervously against the top of the dresser as Sorbet paces like a caged panther.
“He came clean to us,” Sorbet mutters, narrating his own thoughts out loud. “Risotto’s right that if Polpo found out, he’d likely have him eliminated.”
“The Don has always been paranoid,” Gelato offers. “We may know almost nothing about him, but that much is clear. He’d see Risotto as a danger to him.”
“It’s Risotto who’s in a vulnerable position now,” Sorbet concludes. “But if we’ve got him on our side, with that ability… “
He lapses into silence, tapping his foot against the floor.
“So,” says Gelato. “What’s our next move?”
Sorbet’s eyes flick up to meet Gelato’s.
“You’re asking me?”
“Of course. We’re a team, right?” He offers Sorbet a rueful smile.
Sorbet’s amber eyes go soft in the light of the single lamp. A wave of intense affection washes over him as Sorbet pads across the grimy carpet to take Gelato’s hands in his own.
“We should never have fought.”
“It’s okay, baby.” Gelato beams up at him. He takes in the look on his partner’s face, and as simple as that, all is forgiven. “I think we’re on the same page now.”
Sorbet brushes his thumbs along the backs of Gelato’s hands. “You want to keep his secret.”
“Yes.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do. Now that we know the full story, I’m not inclined to just hand him over to Polpo.”
“Yeah, fuck Polpo.”
Sorbet sighs and leans forward to brush the tip of his nose against Gelato’s forehead. “I suppose I’ll just have to get used to a third member on our team.”
“He’s really not so bad, is he?”
“He’s not.” Sorbet slips his arms around Gelato’s midsection and leans into him. “He’s actually much cooler than I’d like to admit with this whole blood magic thing,” he grudgingly concedes.
Gelato giggles, rubbing his face against the light stubble on Sorbet’s jaw.
“I won’t tell him you said that.”
-
It’s late in the evening when the call comes through. The television is playing some American spy film from the 60s as Gelato sits on the couch with Sorbet’s outstretched leg between his own, curled against the cushions as he paints Sorbet’s toenails a deep navy blue.
On the second ring, Gelato hastily hands off the bottle of nail polish to Sorbet as he unfolds himself from the couch to grab the phone off the kitchen wall.
“Pronto?”
“Gelato,” comes an exhaustingly familiar voice. “It’s Polpo.”
Who? Sorbet stage-whispers from where he’s poked his head up above the back of the couch.
Capo, Gelato mouths back. Sorbet’s brow furrows.
“Ah, Polpo.” He forces a cheery tone. “We were expecting you to check in any day now.”
“Is Sorbet with you?”
Gelato rolls his eyes. It seems Passione’s leadership is still pretending that he and Sorbet don’t literally live together. Anyone stupid enough not to catch on to their relationship by this point would have no business running the organization.
“Yes, he’s here.”
“How convenient.” Polpo always manages to sound so goddamn self-satisfied.
Gelato hits the speakerphone button, stretching the phone cord as he walks back toward the living room to where Sorbet waits, his leg still extended across the couch.
“I was hoping you two could report on your most recent mission with the new trainee. I hear it was very successful.”
“Thanks,” Gelato manages to grit out. “Yes, everything went smoothly. Among the three of us, we were able to secure any possible exit points and trap the target. There were no witnesses to the kill, of course.”
“As I would expect from professionals such as yourselves,” says Polpo. “And how about Risotto Nero? Does he have potential, in your view?”
“Oh, sure, sure,” Gelato says quickly. “Smart guy, quick on the uptake. Very handy with a knife. He’ll make a worthy assassin.”
“Does Sorbet agree?”
“Yes,” Sorbet answers. “In my opinion, he shows maturity beyond what would be expected of a man of his age.” He speaks deliberately, if far more slowly than Gelato. “His attention to detail is remarkable. I look forward to training him further.”
“Glad to hear it. It seems my intuition was correct,” says Polpo, oozing smugness. “I’m sure you two are aware of the fate that recently befell the previous hitman team.”
Gelato exchanges a dubious glance with Sorbet at the sudden change of topic. “They were wiped out on a mission, right?”
“Yes, very tragic.” It’s now Sorbet’s turn to roll his eyes at Polpo’s pretentious insincerity. “Unfortunately, their deaths leave us without a dedicated group of assassins to protect Passione. Though you two have carried out a number of duties for the organization over the years, you should know that your new trio with Risotto Nero is among those groups being considered to take the place of the previous hitman team.”
Sorbet’s thick eyebrows shoot up.
“Oh,” says Gelato. “That’s, uh. That’s good news.”
He cringes instantly at his own response as Sorbet makes a series of vaguely panicked gestures in the air with his hands.
“Which is why it’s so crucial that we have a full understanding of Risotto’s capacities as an assassin,” says Polpo. “We need a complete and accurate assessment of everything he is capable of in order to determine whether your team will rise to this new position.”
“Right, right.”
Sorbet’s eyes widen in sudden understanding. It takes Gelato only a moment to catch up to him, and even then, it’s still another second before Polpo continues.
“Did you observe any… unusual occurrences on your mission with him? Any, ah, unique abilities that you took note of?”
Gelato’s thoughts flash to a blood-spattered bathroom. He’s grateful Polpo can’t see their stricken faces.
“Uh, like weapons proficiencies?” he improvises. “Like I said, he’s good with a knife, maybe even better than he is with a gun- “
“That’s not exactly what I mean,” Polpo interrupts him. “I’m referring more to something truly special. Maybe even an ability that seems almost inexplicable.”
“Does anything come to mind?” he prompts.
Gelato meets his partner’s eyes and returns his short nod of silent acknowledgement.
In the end, it’s Sorbet that speaks.
“Nothing I can think of,” he says, convincingly casual. “It was a pretty standard assignment. Risotto’s good, but he’s got a lot of learning to do.”
Perfectly said. Gelato makes a fist and pumps it once in the air as Sorbet gives a sheepish smile.
“Well, if anything comes to mind,” Polpo says at last, “do be sure to let us know. The boss is very interested in anyone with such rare talents. He would even consider a substantial reward for those who can point him in the direction of such people.”
“We’ll keep that in mind,” says Sorbet shortly.
Gelato returns to the couch after they hang up. Sorbet elegantly lifts his long legs to allow him space to sit before propping them up on Gelato’s lap.
“He really was pushy,” Gelato notes, aimlessly stroking Sorbet’s shins.
“Risotto was right.” Sorbet throws an arm over the side of the couch. “He suspects something.”
“…you heard the part about the reward, right?” Gelato questions tentatively.
“Yes. I didn’t consider it further.” Sorbet’s tone is solemn. “We’ve made our choice when it comes to Risotto, and we’re not the sort of men who go back on a promise.”
“Aww, babe.” Gelato bats his eyelashes at him. “That’s weirdly sweet of you.”
“Listen, it’s only because you’re such a softie that we even gave the guy another chance.” Sorbet’s answer comes out a little too defensive to be believable.
“Sure, sure.”
Sorbet passes Gelato the bottle of nail polish and shimmies down the couch to cuddle closer as Gelato gets back to work on his other foot.
“You know,” says Gelato, swiping the brush over the nail of Sorbet’s big toe, “I actually have a pretty good feeling about all of us working together. We’ll be like the Three Musketeers.”
“But with a higher body count.”
Gelato grins fiercely. “A much higher body count.”
In the half-dark of the living room, the television screen glows, now displaying a woman in a long evening dress having a covert conversation with a man with slicked-back hair.
“It makes me wonder how many others there are,” Gelato murmurs. “People with powers like Risotto’s,” he clarifies when Sorbet cocks his head quizzically.
“Can’t be that common. Surely we’d have heard at least some rumor of it before now.”
“I dunno.” Gelato purses his lips thoughtfully as he gives the soft arch of Sorbet’s foot a squeeze. “I just have this sense that we might run into more of them.”
“Then we’ll be ready.” Sorbet’s teeth glint in the shadows. “I may not know much about Marvel Comics, but there’s not too many superpowers that can beat a well-handled sniper rifle.”
The warmth in his chest rises and blooms outward like a mushroom cloud. Gelato leans in to press a kiss to Sorbet’s sharp cheekbone.
“That’s my man.”