#Giorno Giovanna misogyny moments | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dongiovannaswife · 3 years ago

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Waking up, resistance calls.

“Is your cause just, or is that just what you tell yourself?

Severed soul masterlist. | PARTE 1. | PARTE 2.. |

In 1969, Elisabeth Kübler-Ross describes the five stages of grief model (DABDA; denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance) in her book ‘On Death and Dying’ as a non a linear model; not everyone will experience the stages in the same order, time nor intensity. Some will undergo through two out of the five stages, others will experience many of them at once. The five stages assigned in the model were the most common observed throughout the grieving population.

But that was on death and dying, not finding out someone close was —no, is— still alive, in some kind of twisted, interdimensional and supernatural way.

Some stages came crashing down upon Giorno Giovanna’s shoulders after Catherine Gupta revealed the truth to him when the Dallas Board kept the information, securing Dio as an asset. With his contract coming to an end, Sunnie and Catherine could sneak out information to the Don, effectively surprising him.

Tormentful feelings crash upon his shoulders, bringing him to his knees in a process of acceptance and rage —as time goes by, resolve comes back, and along comes the plan to tear down the Board and free Dio Brando.

TW: death, blood, injuries, suicide, murder, language use warning, traffic accident, misogyny. Pretty strong part, please take care of yourself and don’t read if you are not at your best: your health comes first.

“So…” she starts in a whisper, “What do you think?”

Giorno’s voice comes out in a low whisper, almost inteligible, as if he’s afraid the twins will hear them. “Mida’s touch: killing them inside the Foundation is out for now. The first step is to scare them off, then, once we make sure all the trash’s out, we can do whatever we want. We can get rid of them after: make it look like an accident, you know.”

She nods, tilting her head to the side, “But what exactly do you mean by ‘Mida’s touch’?”

Giorno nods, “I’ll tell you, but you’re not conditioned to help if you don’t want to: I know your profession goes against taking a life so… Just listen and we’ll see.”

Lena nods and Giorno closes his eyes for a moment, sighing.

“Your stand can enhance other’s abilities, right? With my stand and yours, we could work something out so the moment I touch one of them, their skin will transform into solid gold, trapping them inside their own body. A human has just a tiny bit of gold, so… With Wire, we could modify those levels and use them in our favor.”

Lena sits up, eyes drifting around the walls, deep in thought. “I’d like to use that against that one mother—” she cuts herself off upon realizing the boys are still there and, even if they can’t hear her, she still corrects herself, “Person, against that one person who sees stand users as evil beings —but… Honestly, whoever gets that, we need to make sure it strikes as intimidation, not a war cry.”

Giorno nods, inquiring. “So… you’re okay with that.”

She nods, solemnly. “To be honest, I couldn’t care less about ethics right now. I should, but I don’t want to.”

“It’s not like you will be the one responsible for that, however,” Giorno comments still, as if trying to make her feel better. “I will be the one inflicting the damage: you are just—”

“My participation does put me to blame, Gio. But, I mean, I don’t really care.”

There’s a moment of silence where only the sounds of birds chirping outside can be heard along the soft hums coming from the sleeping babies between the couple.

Suddenly, Giorno speaks up, eyebrows furrowed. Sorrow. “The Kishibe’s knew. They weren’t sincere.”

Lena shakes her head, lips pressed in a tight line. Reaching out, her hand barely covers his, but does bring peace and warmth. “Let’s not jump into conclusions, yes? We’ll talk to them later.”

As the morning goes by, the Giovanna’s mansion starts to receive visits —the first to arrive is Abel Agreste, riding his motorbike and blasting ‘CPR’ by Cupcakke for not too long before Fugo, who had stayed at the mansion just in case after seeing Giorno’s state the night before, came up to him reprimanding him and reminding him of the twins probably still asleep. With a knowing smirk, Abel agrees to turn it off, but the joke remains.

Slowly, the people requested for the meeting start to arrive until the living room at the mansion is filled with calm chatter.

Until Don Giovanna stands by the end of the staircase, eyeing them from his spot in silence. A shadow casted over his eyes. When the Donna joins his side and wraps her hand around his bicep, the chatter comes to a stop upon the common feeling of someone else present there.

8:32 AM.

“Good morning,” the Don starts, descending the first step along his wife. “Let’s move into the conference room down the hallway, shall we?”

The group walks up quietly, following the Dons in silence except for Abel’s chanting of a pop song even after Westwood elbows him multiple times, Abel only chuckles, vocalizing to the best of his abilities.

“Gentlemen, ladies, we’ve got a mission in our hands: this is no longer about the organization,” Giorno starts once they’ve sat down around the table, attention focused solely on him. “It’s personal.” As he finishes, the tension in the room increases, the silence becomes unbearable. Thick with the Don’s rage.

“Fugo,” Lena calls, looking back at her friend in terrifying calm. “Please explain the situation.”

Fugo Pannacotta stands up from his chair by Vittorio’s side, walking around the table, nodding and cleaning his throat as a wandering hand straightens his suit and the same hand ends up inside his pocket as he walks up to the front, right by the Don’s side.

“Three and a half years ago, a man named Dio Brando went to the Foundation’s dig site in Norway, offering a deal if the Foundation could assure his safety: he was moved to the Dallas location, where he’s been kept since then as object of experiments without the Dallas branch notifying this to other locations nor branches. This man is not the Dio Brando from this dimension: somehow, he managed to escape from his universe just when Jotaro Kujo was chasing him down in Cairo in order to finish him off as vengeance after his mother’s death.”

The rest of the team stares with big eyes, questions out the window upon the lack of logic.

Until a man bursts through the door, arriving late as usual, but having heard Fugo’s report. “That is not logical, but it is possible if we count down the variants of stands, remember Florida? We could be dealing with something of that magnitude.”

“Woah, woah,” Mista waves, “Good morning for you too, Paolo —are you in a rush, perhaps?”

Paolo Aparigi stands by the door frame with his arms crossed, hip cocked to the side and an evident frown behind his containment suit mask.

He’s one of the secret members of la Squadra, with a stand capable of creating black holes to his will.

The man’s eyes are bloodshot as he looks around the room, tensing once the Don’s hardened sight falls on him. “Excuse me, Don, Donna,” he bows, coming in and closing the door behind his back, “The flight took longer than expected.” Making his way to the closest chair, he sits down as fast as he can, eyes fixed on his gloved hands. “Please, continue.”

“Alright,” Fugo clears his throat again, uncomfortable with the terrifying silence from Giorno’s part. “As I said before, Dio Brando jumped from his dimension to ours in order to escape from the Jotaro Kujo of his dimension: unfortunately, he ran into the Dallas Board, who kept him as an asset: Catherine Gupta gave us the information hoping that some external pressure from our organization leads to Dio’s freedom.”

Fugo turns around, pressing a button on his laptop —a photograph of Catherine Gupta and her team gathered in a meeting shows up first. He steps closer, signaling each individual with his index, “Catherine and Sunnie came personally yesterday, the terms and conditions regarding our success are under the Don’s interests for now.” he points at the rest of the people in the photo. “These people will be our allies, I suggest you take a close look at them.”

“Thank you, Fugo. Sit down.” The Donna cuts him off, standing up from her husband’s side. “Our reasons to intervene go behind the favor Catherine asked from us, it is a personal matter. When things like these happen, you would expect a professional organization to notify you, don’t you?”

She looks around as if expecting an answer. Vivianne Alma nods finally, adding in a gentle voice. “Yes. That is a policy they all keep, specially as Foundations: they’re supposed to be transparent and look for people’s wellbeing.”

“Indeed,” Lena nods, “Tell me, Alma, did the Board ever try to contact you? Or maybe you, Westwood?” She looks back at the man, who shakes his head.

“They didn't.” Alma nods, confirming her boss’ words. “In fact, if I may add, back when you were appointed Director of the Italian location, none of them were present.”

“Exactly,” Helena nods, nodding in Fugo’s direction so he presses the button on his laptop to show the next photograph: Dio Brando. Until then, the photograph is ignored, as the people present in the room decide to focus on the Donna instead —maybe just as part of their denial. And maybe, the terror inflicted upon them after hearing the stories about Dio Brando, the Dio Brando from their dimension, at least; however, the man in the photo was exactly like the Dio they knew: one could say their brains were still processing the bizarre information.

“Back when we knew I would be working for the Foundation, Gio and I decided to take back all our spies and informants just so we could add to the policies of transparency and honesty. As you can see, that was a mistake.”

Don Giovanna stands up, joining his wife’s side. “Now, does anyone remember the foundation’s mission?” shoving his hands inside his pockets, he looks around the room, eyes half lidded and shoulders tense.

Abel Agreste speaks up, relaxed but stern at the same time. “Of course, They aim to better mankind by furthering medical science in pharmaceuticals, photochemistry and several other disciplines.”

“No,'' the Donna shakes her head, “Its true purpose, what was on Robert E.O. Speedwagon’s head when he founded it?”

Abel shrugs, totally unaware. “Dunno, maybe it’s like, a stand-user's institute?”

“Uncover the mysteries behind the stone mask.” the Dons reply in unison, making the man look up with an arched eyebrow.

“What does this have to do with Dio Brando and the experiments upon him? I mean, I know he went apeshit with the stone mask, but like, why would we care? You said it, the mission is to know more about the stone mask, hence, experimenting on someone who used it. Why exactly should we care?”

The tension intensifies. A small moment of silence shows just how Abel’s words dig into his bosses’ minds, either enraging or surprising them. The thing is, that Abel has no idea what’s going on inside their minds.

“Because they're not hypocrites,” Giorno's eyes flash a golden light in a silent warning of his temper running low. “We are dealing with the Dallas Board, not the whole organization. While the foundation does want to know more about the stone mask, think about this: Dio Brando might have agreed to the experiments.”

“Dio Brando is viewed as less than an asset, though." Abel shoots back, two fingers cupping his chin, eyes up into the ceiling.

Giorno opens his mouth to speak when Lena raises her hand to stop him, “One: medical ethics exist, and those do not allow professionals to perform anything that goes against both physical and psychological wellbeing. Two: unless the individuals offer their consent —Dio Brando is in all his mental capacities to agree and consent to the experiments conducted on him. Think logically: he let them experiment on him as both a way to assure his stance and safety and as a way to prove he's by their side. Had he wanted to, he could have escaped a while ago.”

Finally looking up from his hands, Paolo Aparigi scowls, mumbling loud enough for everyone to hear. “It became unethical from the very moment they kept the information. He is... He is your father, Don Giovanna, they should have told you —” he looks at Lena now, “And you're basically the Director of the Italian location, Donna Giovanna... They should have informed you before anyone else.”

The couple nods and Abel speaks up again, a funny tone trying to mask his stress. “Dio Brando is alive, well and living in hell, apparently.” he chuckles, noticing the lack of reaction from the rest of them, and instead adds, “Politics, people. It's all about politics and beliefs. So, how will we act?”

“Glad we’re on the same page now, Agreste.” Giorno nods in Abel’s way, tilting his head up in a gesture that screams confidence. Looking around the room, he makes sure to take his time just to look each person in that room in the eye before looking by his side and into his wife’s eyes.

When her expression mirrors his, the Don looks back, declaring in a firm, strong tone. “We will tear the Board down and give their power to Catherine Gupta, who’s worth the title and empowerment.”

The room’s suddenly filled with a proclamation, made with all the voices in there; the start of a new era.

“Aquila non capit muscas.”

Don Giovanna nods, amused and pleased, but serious still. “Alright, then. I will give you instructions, I expect a perfect performance from each of you —no mistakes, and if you do make one, then solve it on the spot.”

With a shared nod, Giorno looks back at his wife as he walks back to his seat, and she follows him in silence. As he pulls her chair out and holds his hand out to help her seat, Giorno starts. “Abel, do we still have contacts in?”

Abel nods, scoffing. “Of fucking course, Don. Wouldn't lose them for the world.”

“Good,” Giorno sits down, leaning back. “Find them, do anything you have to and get inside: you will be our spy, anything that happens there, you’ll inform me: if a fly dies, I will know; if one of them takes a shit, I will know. Got it?”

“Yeeeep,” Abel nods frantically, stopping midway. “What will be our code? Like our green light? How will I know you just started the real thing?”

“Our code will be ‘who saves the weak from the man who saves the weak?’ Catherine and Sunnie know about it, and we can expect the rest of her people to know, but just in case, find him—” he points at a young man with sunglasses and brown-reddish hair; Fugo quickly zooms on him so Abel can take a closer look. “Sunnie mentioned it is possible you’ll see him frequently: his name is Toby, he’s probably a stand user. Anyone is okay, but something tells me you should tell him out of the rest.”

“Got it,” Abel nods, stealing a piece of paper from Westwood's notebook —the corner of his page, in fact— and next, he takes a pen from Vivianne, writing down his instructions in rushed handwriting that could be compared to that of a kid. Folding the piece of paper, he shoves it inside his jacket, making sure to destroy it in a strange ritual.

“Next,” Giorno speaks up once Abel nods on his way, “Vittorio, Vivianne: we will kill them all, but not inside the Foundation. Once they start going out the facility, whether they agree to step back or not, we will finish them off: I’ll leave it to you, but you’ll work under two strict conditions that should not be broken under any circumstances: one, you will make it seem as accidents or suicide; two, no civilians involved.”

Vivianne and Vittorio turn to look at each other, nodding after a moment of shared looks. Looking back at him, both nod and Vittorio replies, “Got it, Don. I just have one question —how will you make them step back?”

“First things first, Vittorio.”

The photograph shown next displays an old man.

“You’ll receive this information for your mission, but I want you all to take extra care with two persons: this is Phil Leslie Boyd: he believes stand users are unnatural and dangerous.” He nods in Fugo’s direction and he changes to the next photograph; an old woman with cross earrings and blue eyes. “Julia Langley: she envies stand users. These two should be handled carefully, all of them should, but these two demand extra care. Now, moving forward, this operation will start for real once we let Abel know we’re ready and about to go into the meeting. From then on, Abel will make sure to alert Catherine’s team on time while we’re talking with them. However, we’ll have a prelude, during which Abel will infiltrate, Vivianne and Vittorio will work out the assassinations, Lena and I will prepare everything for the twins’ safety, and practice our attack: this period will last one week.”

Giorno stops, looking back at Helena. He’s silently asking for her to keep going. With a nod and the expectant looks from the members of la squadra and unità, she speaks up. “Answering your question, Vittorio: we have planned something, it will work out as intimidation once we make our point come across. Gio calls it ‘Mida’s touch’ and, basically, we will trap one of them inside their body. We’re planning to do it with my stand enhancing his.”

Westwood speaks for the first time in a while, “You mean, like, giving them a taste of their own medicine?”

“Exactly,” she nods, “Humans have a tiny percent of gold in their blood: with Wire enhancing Goldie’s abilities, we plan on altering those levels, forcing their skin to turn into gold, since the skin is heavily irrigated by blood vessels: with our strategy, we plan on altering not only the blood levels of gold, but also their respiratory frequency, hence increasing the oxygen and gold flow. We gotta be careful, though, we don’t want to hyperventilate the victim as that would go against us.”

“Slower, Donna,” Abel blinks repeatedly, “Just… You’re gonna turn somebody’s body into a prison —right? That’s sick. Wish I could see it.”

The Donna shakes her head, “Yeah, no. We need you outside just to make sure the Board is not our only enemy: your time as a spy will be pretty short, I suggest you obtain all the info you can. Anyone who could be with them will be a target. In case you notice they’re not a target, let us know too.”

Westwood hums, nodding. By his side, Abel goes silent, staring off into the wall.

“Next, we need to ensure our sons’ security.” Lena looks around the room, knowing none of these people will be able to do it personally, except maybe for one person. “We thought about a close friend, Trish Una, but we need someone to be there by her side just in case someone tries to attack them. Westwood,” the masked man nods in his boss’ direction, turning to look her in the eye. “You are our first option —we believe your stand will be formidable if an attack happens.”

Agosto ‘Westwood’ Carvelli nods, bowing. “It will be a pleasure, Donna. But I must remind you, my stand works better as a defense, not as an offensive type.”

“That’s okay,” Don Giovanna says, “I must remind you, however, that when we met, you were perfectly capable of attacking —your stand will do anything to protect, and with that, we could conclude ‘attack’ is on the list of things it could do, am I right?”

Scratching the back of his neck, Westwood frowns, pursing his lips. Sighing in defeat, he raises a hand to his face, closing his eyes as his hand takes off his mask, letting his upper face free. His dark eyes light up in something unreadable. “You’re right, sorry. I will be there for the boys.”

Giorno and Lena nod, “Then, this will be all. We start now: Abel, head back and sneak in. Once inside, let us know and contact Catherine: don’t be explicit, give her clues of who you are, she’ll understand. Do not let others find out. Vittorio and Vivianne, report back once you have all your plans done: you will be given the means. Listen people, and don’t make me repeat myself again: this operation will start in one week exactly, act fast and precisely.”

Speedwagon Foundation Headquarters, Dallas. 4:35 PM.

‘Ah, shit man, jet lag reaaaally sucks. But they said it had to be done now… Meh, duty calls. I guess I can sleep after settling in.’

The Dallas Headquarters have nothing in common with those in Naples —the architecture feels strangely familiar, but not comfortable. As Abel walks up to the main entrance, his mind drifts to the mission left to him: he’s always been excellent when it comes to hiding stuff: his talkative attitude easily distracts people. His contact said they had just put him into the system as a new employee —one hour ago. He could only hope not to seem suspicious arriving so soon to his new job.

“Oh, hey! Abel!”

‘Well, shit.’

Turning around and putting into a friendly smile, he comes face to face to the man Don Giovanna mentioned he’d encounter. Toby walks up to him, grinning and waving, raising his voice as he speaks up even if they’re two feet apart, “It’s me! Can’t you recognize your cousin? It’s me, Toby!”

‘Oh, look at that gorgeous son of bitch. He knows, and here I was shitting my pants for no damn reason.’

“Toby!” he grins, waving back and walking in his direction, not failing to notice the glances casted their way, “How’s aunt May? How are her hemorrhoids?”

The glances from before are gone with the mere mention of hemorrhoids. Good.

Toby grimaces, “Oh man, she’s doing better now! How did the flight go?”

“Boring, as always —oh, hold on. Grandpa wanted a pic once I got here.” Unlocking his phone with his fingerprint, Abel taps on the camera app, turning to look at Toby. “Wanna surprise him? I bet he misses you a lot.”

Toby nods, getting the message behind Abel’s words —a casual pic to let the Don know the plan has started.

“Sure, man. Why not? Gotta let the old man know I’ll kick his ass next time we see.”

Snapping a selfie, Abel nods in Toby’s way, sending the pic to the contact named Grandpa —Fugo’s contact, renamed— captioning it with ‘Hey grandpa! Look who I found, tell grandma about this!!’

Toby’s arm circles his shoulders in a friendly way, pulling him forward, all smiles and happiness. “Who would have thought we’d find each other here, did you get a job here?”

“Yeah.” Abel pats Toby in the back, “I still gotta look around for my station, but I’m just happy to be here. I thought you were working somewhere else?”

“Nah, not for now. This place’s great. You’ll see.”

The door slides open automatically, letting the conditioned air slip out for a brief second as both men come in. The receptionist nods in Toby’s way, pressing her lips in a tight line as they come to a stop before her.

The way she eyes both with clear interest doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Hey, Amanda. How’s it going?” Grinning at her, Toby makes sure to show off, intending to distract her from Abel.

“Good afternoon, Toby. How did your lunch break go?” Amanda gestures vaguely, nervous upon the sight of Toby —her eyes drift momentarily to Abel, and back to Toby: her fingers tap at her nose in a clear gesture of disapproval, “I see you brought someone in, I must remind you visitors are not allowed if they do not possess a previous—”

Toby chuckles, charming. “Oh please, Amanda. Didn’t I tell you? My cousin’s gonna work here! I’m pretty sure I said it before.” he leans into the desk, invading her personal space with an arched eyebrow, “Don’t you remember? We were talking about our families and I mentioned he’s the only relative I actually like, aside from my grandparents, but I mean, look at this distinguished gentleman! He’s got my eyebrows, the family signature! He’s not an asshole like the rest of our family, right Abel?”

Abel nods, rolling his eyes. “Don’t ever mention them, god. The stress’s gonna make my gastritis come back.”

Amanda blinks, unable to remember any of that —as a frown starts to form, Abel leans into the desk, searching in his bag for something that doesn’t even exist, but trying to go along Toby’s cover. “I’m pretty sure I have it —Uh, where’s that damn paper…”

“See?” Toby shakes his head, looking back at Amanda from Abel’s position, “He’s all nervous! C’mon, don’t be so hard on him, it’s not even his first day! He’s just coming for a tour around his station.”

Amanda’s cheeks heat up when Toby leans in closer: her eyes go around his face in a matter of seconds, drifting from his eyes to his lips, back again and repeating until she’s chuckling nervously, unaware of the game he’s playing.

“I, Sorry— you do look like relatives. Guess I’m just being paranoid. Please, uh…”

“The name’s Abel, cutie. Can I call you cutie? Or is it too much?” Abel pouts, jumping into Toby’s game to try and distract her further.

“Hey,” Toby quickly shoots back, “Easy there, I’ve known her for longer.”

“No, no!” Amanda waves, cheeks red and eyes the size of dinner plates, “Please just come in!”

“Oh, right!” Toby bows, exaggerating the gesture, “Thanks, Amanda! See you later!” Pulling Abel along with him, both men walk down the hallway, sharing triumphant smiles.

“That poor woman has the biggest crush on you, man.” raising his eyebrows repeatedly, Abel turns to him, a shit-eating grin plastered across his features, “What kind of cousin are you?”

“Oh, please, newbie.” Toby grins, chuckling, “Grandpa, really?”

Grinning first, both soon break into a fit of laughter.

Passione Headquarters, Naples.

“Don Giovanna,” Fugo looks up from his phone and into Giorno’s direction.

“Yes?” Looking up from Wire and Lena’s plans, Giorno’s attention focuses on Purple Haze’s user.

“Abel’s in. He found Toby.” Standing from his chair, Fugo walks up to Giorno, showing him the picture of both men. Looking closer, Abel’s doing the casual peace sign: Toby’s doing the classical middle finger up.

“Good, are you listening to their conversation?”

“Yes, nothing new yet. I’ll keep waiting.”

Speedwagon Foundation Headquarters, Dallas. 9:00 PM.

“Hey, Abel, let’s go out for a drink so we can catch up.”

Abel looks up from his book, exchanging looks with Toby, “Sure.”

As the car leaves the Headquarters behind, Abel relaxes, sinking into the copilot’s seat. “Okay man, that was brilliant.”

Toby grins, quickly glancing at him, “You were quick to join my game, though.”

“One has to do everything to ensure success.”

“Listen, Agreste: the security cameras are always supervised, like, heavily. Obsessively. But the guards tend to slow down around three in the morning to five: if you want to take them, that's the time to do it.”

Abel nods, and his next words almost make Toby choke on his own spit. “Got that, Fugo?”

“The fuck, dude?!”

Abel laughs, “Sorry man, couldn't let you know earlier. But this man, Fugo from Intelligence, has been listening to everything.”

“I mean, that’s reasonable, but… Damn.”

With a chuckle, Abel pats his back, “C’mon, cousin, let’s get some alcohol.”

“Yeah, yeah —just… Does he get to hear when you’re, you know, doing your physiological needs?”

“What do you think?”

“... Eww.”

Passione Headquarters, Naples. 3:00 AM.

“Don, Donna.” With a knock to the door, Vivianne Alma turns the doorknob, coming into her bosses’ office. The couple lays on the couch, heavy eyelids and tired smiles her way.

Quickly sitting up, Lena fixes her hair a little, waiting until Giorno sits up by her side to ask, “What is it?”

“Sorry to interrupt, I know you’ve been working nonstop on your technique, but… Vittorio and I just finished our part. I was hoping to let you know our requirements.”

“Good,” Giorno nods, waving them close. “Care to give us a small report?”

“Sure,” Alma bows, crossing her arms behind her back and leaning in. “We wrote down our ideas and resolutions for eight cases and scenarios, but nothing is destined to specifical individuals: there’s only one suicide planned,” turning to her companion, Alma takes the stack of papers from Vittorio, coming closer to place it on Lena’s hand.

“Thank you,” The Donna smiles at Alma, “We’ll check it up and let you know when we have all the requirements ready.”

“Sure.” Vittorio bows, noticing what seems to be layers of gold on the floor, “Could you do it? Your attack, I mean.”

The couple hums and Lena grins, with Giorno smiling slightly.

“Yes,” the Donna nods, “We’re ready.”

Three days later.

Abel A. sent a photo: ‘Hey grandma! I met someone at work, she’s amazing!! And there you were saying I wouldn't find good people, ha!’

Grinning in the camera’s direction by Abel’s side, a woman with brown skin, curly hair and blue eyes sticks her tongue out in a playful, joyful manner. Abel’s pointing at her with one hand as the other does an ‘ok’ gesture —he’s sending a message.

“Donna,” Fugo calls without looking up from his phone, and instead directing his attention to his laptop, where he starts looking for the woman’s information, “Abel’s sending a message.”

“What is it?” Standing from her desk and walking forward, Lena stands by Fugo’s side, looking into his phone and recognizing the woman from the files she’s been studying nonstop. “Lamb: he’s giving his thumbs up.”

“Mhm,” Fugo hums, “She’s not a threat.”

“Good, I’ll tell Gio. Send that to everyone.”

“Roger that.”

“How are you doing with the security system thing?” Walking back to her desk, Lena sits on top of it, sighing under her breath.

“We’re good,” Fugo looks up, quickly realizing her intense look on him. “Abel managed to steal an username and password from an administrative account, Pietro used his stand to hear his thoughts, and now I’m in.”

Lena nods, as if thinking about that. “And what about the guards?”

“Once you tell me, I’ll work my magic.”

The office door opens, letting Giorno come in. His lips are pressed in a tight line as he closes the door at his back, walking up to the desk in silence, where he leaves a folder. Turning to his wife and friend, he frowns slightly, “Process?”

“Abel sent a photo: he’s letting us know Lamb is not a threat.”

Giorno hums approvingly, directing a glance at Lena. “Everything Vivianne asked for is ready, too. On my way here I was thinking that, out of the Board, the only stand user is Marilynn Martyn: she can shapeshift. She’s gonna be a problem if we don’t do something before the meeting.”

“If I recall correctly,” Lena leans back, planting her hands into the desk’s cold wooden, eyes up into the ceiling, as if reciting something from memory. “Alma and Vittorio planned a suicide, using Pietro’s stand, right?” She looks back at her husband at the end, noticing the way the look in his eyes changes in a signal that he’s thinking about it.

“That's right,” he nods, turning to Fugo. “Could you call Pietro, Vittorio and Alma?”

Fugo nods, typing down the order. With an aggressive tap to the Enter key, the orders are sent. Purple Haze’s user looks up, squinting at his bosses in a mix of terror and curiosity. “You’re gonna make her take her own life before the meeting?”

And Don Giovanna hums, the sound both deep and strangely calm. “Probably during that morning, but we need to inflict psychological damage; give her motives. Her colleagues have to notice something’s off, and before they get to act upon it,” the Don’s hands form a ball by clasping both palms together and interlocking his fingers: “Boom.” his hands separate, imitating an explosion. It’s a bad analogy, but one that comes across just right.

A knock at the door sounds, and both the Donna and the Don turn to look, speaking in unison. “Come in.”

Fugo’s eyelid twitches —those two are highly connected in a way that results both romantic and terrifying.

“Good afternoon, Don, Donna.” Vivianne Alma comes in with Pietro and Vittorio Ventura trailing behind her: their hands intertwined. Casual.

“Good afternoon,” Lena smiles at them, motioning at the couches in the office. “Please have a seat, we need you to do something for us.”

“Of course, Lena-Lena.” Pietro grins at her, rubbing her back as he passes by.

“Tell us, Gio, how can we help?” Draping an arm around Pietro’s shoulders, Vittorio leans back against the couch, keeping a neutral expression.

Giorno joins Lena’s side at the desk, both now sitting in it like it’s a christmas party. “Alma and you wrote about a suicide, right?”

Both nod and Giorno continues, “We consider Marilynn Martyn the perfect victim for this: she’s a stand user, and although her abilities might mean no harm, she could sneak out and ruin our plans.”

Vivianne hums, flicking her braid into her back, “Yeah, I agree. Especially if she sees Abel’s stand, or someone else’s.”

Pietro grins, wickedly. “Love me some psychology, hm?”

Lena shakes her head, inevitably chuckling. “Take this seriously, Piet —can you do it, yes or no?”

Pietro fakes hurt, clenching his fist into his sweatshirt, “Of course I can, Lena-Lena! Just give me a photograph and I’ll work my magic.”

By his side, his husband rolls his eyes in fake annoyance.

Wordlessly, Fugo stands up from his spot, retracting a photograph from his files and extending it out to Pietro. “Go ahead.”

The photograph shows a blond woman with a center parted bob hairstyle, brown eyes and tanned skin; something about her eyes screams mean popular girl from highschool in the body of a fifty four years old woman. The mere sight of her irritates Pietro to no end —and right there, blue waves surround him as he bores holes into the photograph. As the photograph shatters into a strange blue haze and floats beside Pietro’s head, the assassin mutters, “Monolith; break away.” and then, a loud creak resonates through the office, leaving the ears of those around him ringing.

“Monolith, hide your presence —start: allow her to hear my voice in her mind and soul.”

Seconds pass without a change in the atmosphere, where only Pietro’s sweat falls into the floor in droplets. Creaks can be heard every now and then as he makes his way to break her barriers and set Monolith’s attack carved into her mind as an automatic system.

Pietro grins, looking up at Giorno and Helena with dilated pupils, hair sticking to his forehead and voice deeper from exertion. “Done, you won’t see her at the meeting: Monolith will work into her nonstop from now on, until she can’t take it anymore.”

Giorno nods, no traces of guilt found. He doesn’t feel bad about her.

“Thank you, Pietro. Rest.”

Vittorio rubs Pietro’s back, looking back at his bosses. “Is there anything else we can do for you?”

“That would be all. Keep in touch, if something happens and you consider it could compromise the mission, report back immediately, yes?”

“Of course, Don. See you. Goodbye, Donna. Bye, Fugo.”

28 hours before the meeting, Naples: Passione Headquarters.

“Thank you for coming, gentlemen, ladies.” Sitting at the head of the table with Lena by his side, Giorno looks his people in the eye, a proud air around him. “Today we’re going over our mission status. As you might already know, we’ll leave tomorrow. We need to prepare the scenarios.”

There’s a moment of silence where only nods can be seen around the table.

Pannacotta Fugo stands up, staying in his place as he gives the report one last time: “Vivianne Alma, Vittorio Ventura, Pietro Ventura, Guido Mista, Marco Russo, Paolo Aparigi and Abel Agreste will participate directly: Westwood Carvelli, Trish Una and Bocelli Enzo will take care of the Giovanna twins. I, Fugo Pannacotta, will be there too, to coordinate the operation from a prudent distance.”

Giorno nods, “Are we clear, then? Any questions?”

Silence.

“Good,” Giorno turns to Pietro then, “Process on Marilynn Martyn’s case?”

Fugo sits down, leaning back and staring into his cup of tea as Pietro stands up. “Marilynn Maryn did not attend her job today. I’m close: I can assure you it’ll be done in twenty four hours: haven’t let her sleep nor rest.”

This time, Lena speaks up. “Is she aware of your stand?”

Pietro shakes his head, “She believes this is a new experience, something about her zodiac sign… If you ask me, it's totally ridiculous.”

Vittorio snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, he’s close.”

“Before we continue.” Jean Pierre Polnareff speaks up, standing in the middle of the table. “Don, Donna: I want to stay with the twins. I said I’d go with you, but I believe… I think I’d rather protect them, somehow.”

“Of course, Mr. Polnareff.” Giorno smiles, a sincere smile that does not scream confidence or malice.

“Thank you, Pol.” Lena bows, smiling in a warm, thankful way.

21 hours before the meeting, Naples International Airport. 6: 00 PM.

Dante and Jovi Giovanna sob before tears slid down the apples of their cheeks —their eyes flickering from their mother to their father, tiny fists curling around Westwood’s shirt in a tight, desperate grip.

“Oh, honey,” With a lump in her throat, Lena leans in, kissing their cheeks. Her eyes mirror theirs, but she manages to keep her tears in check, “I promise we will come back soon —uncle West will stay with you, hm? And auntie Trish too!”

Jovi shakes his head, babbling something, unable to express himself —although his tears already tell he’s upset and sad about his parents leaving. He’s unable to understand the pass of time, even if his parents do come back it would still mean they were far for too long. Throwing his arms forward, he asks in a silent plea for her to hold him.

A single tear falls down, running down Lena’s cheek as she takes the baby boy in her arms, cradling him closer. Her voice is restrained when she mutters against the crown of his head, “It’s okay, love. I’ve got you.”

Giorno’s lips are pressed into a tight line as he comes closer, taking Dante from Westwood and, just like Lena, he cradles the boy closer, mumbling words of affirmation that he hopes will soothe the child.

Out of everything planned, leaving for a few days and trying to get the boys to understand was perhaps the hardest, most challenging part.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Bocelli Enzo walks up, hands behind his back: solemn eyes and a frown, he’s both sad and worried. “I’ll make sure they don’t take it so hard. My son used to have a hard time too, but I know just how to make them forget about it for a while.”

Giorno nods, holding Dante with just one arm as he extends the other forward, rubbing Bocelli’s back. “Thank you. I trust you on this —c’mon, buddy, uncle West wants to show you something, hm?”

Dante leans back, looking at Westwood with big bloodshot eyes. The man grins, showing the remote control car Bocelli handed him while they weren’t looking. “I wanna show you this! You can drive it, too!”

Jovi shakes his head, refusing.

“Then,” Kneeling, West puts the car into the floor. Taking the control from Bocelli, he makes sure it’s on before making it run forward and in circles.

Dante and Jovi stare with big, surprised eyes. Tears suddenly forgotten.

“See?” West stands up, smiling triumphantly. “Wanna drive it?”

Dante frowns, seeming to consider it. His grip on Giorno’s shirt softens gradually until he’s leaning against Westwood’s direction, asking to be held. His brother does the same, although he asks to be held by Bocelli.

Westwood and Bocelli manage to take the boys far from their parents, distracting them as they get into the plane with Mista and Vittorio by their side.

As the city turns into a mix of green, brown and blue shades and the plane leaves behind Naples, Lena leans against Giorno’s shoulder, weeping in silence. It’s hard to breathe through the clenching pain in her chest.

“I know,” he murmurs, noticing the way Mista looks down into his feet. Hearing Vittorio mumble something. His arm pulls her closer, rubbing at her arm. “But it’ll be done soon.”

Ten hours before the meeting, Dallas. 12:34 AM.

“I stand my ground,” Lockwood McCaul stares into Abel’s eyes, “I don’t understand why you keep in touch with your grandmother so much —abandoning her in Italy to come and work here doesn’t sound logical, isn’t there a location of the Foundation too?”

Abel rolls his eyes, feeling a sudden wave of rage creeping up his spine but masking it with a lie. “Yeah, but I was not accepted there. I asked my cousin and now I’m here, happily working. My grandparents, you see, I grew up with them: I want to give them the life they always wanted.”

“Still,” Lockwood shakes his head, crossing his arms. “You could have worked somewhere else.”

Abel frowns, “This Foundation has always been my dream. And, by the way, why do you care? I was just asking for the cafeteria.”

Lockwood shrugs, “You seem defensive of them: just wondering. The cafeteria—” he looks down at his watch, grinning maliciously. “Just closed, exactly ten minutes ago.”

Abel scoffs. Lockwood was holding him back so he couldn’t get there in time. “Guess I’ll go out and get something, then.” Passing by, Abel can’t help it but turn around, calling. “McCaul?”

The man turns to him, arching an eyebrow in a silent question.

“Logic won’t suck you off, man.”

As he leaves McCaul behind, Abel can feel his phone vibrating inside the pocket of his jeans —his stomach rumbles horribly as he pulls it out, checking the call ID. It’s the Donna’s contact masked as ‘Aunt Bianca’.

Picking up, he looks around, grinning as he speaks, “Bianca! It’s been so long, how's it going?”

“Good night, Abel. I see you’ve been holding on, hm?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, keeping the act even if her voice is perfectly neutral. “Been working hard: just got a new job. You should come for the holidays, don’t you think?”

“We’re at the hotel, Abel: the Board agreed on the meeting.”

Abel’s eyes widen, but he manages to keep it under key. “Really?! When are you coming?”

“Tomorrow at ten in the morning, obviously. I need you to alert Toby an hour before just in case.”

He couldn’t be happier, “Oh, that sounds nice! How’s the dog?” ‘Anything else I should know?’

“Pietro reported back two hours ago: you will hear about Marilynn Martyn soon.”

Abel nods multiple times, chuckling. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll take care —call me soon, yeah?”

“Good night, Abel. Rest.”

The call ends and he smirks, walking down the street. The lights of the restaurant he’s walking up flicker, illuminating part of the letters at the top. As he walks in, the weight of Lena’s words sinks in.

The meeting will be in a few hours and apparently, they just took down one of them. Glad he’s with them, not against.

Ever since he met Giorno, there has always been something about him that made Abel glad his parents took the decision to form an alliance with Passione. Although he was adamant to work under someone two years younger than him, the pass of time showed just how dangerous Giorno Giovanna could be if he so desired.

And then, when their friendship started to solidify, getting to know his family story proved just how… Different he was from the rest of mob bosses.

Giorno Giovanna.

To his enemies, he is Dio Brando. To his allies, he is Jonathan Joestar.

His wife was… Mesmerizing, he had to admit: her kindness, beauty and intelligence, her vision of the world. And her comprehension of Giorno aside from their relationship was pure. He had to admit she was one of the few persons he didn't want to see angry: she reminded him of his mother, he could finally understand when his father claimed that ‘when she’s angry, the devil comes out to learn from her.’ She was like that, perfectly capable. Dangerous and beautiful.

Omni Dallas Hotel, 6:00 AM.

He stays there, reuzel pomade left in his fingers —long forgotten upon the sight of her clothes still in bed, waiting for her to come out of her shower.

Short strapless black dress, naked wolfe boots.

The bathroom door swings open and Lena walks in, holding her towel close to her so it doesn’t fall off —hair and makeup perfectly done.

“Lena?” Giorno finally asks, trying not to lose his mind over it. “You know I love it when you dress up but… I’m just wondering, what is this?”

Lena grins up at him, taking the dress from the bed along with her underwear. “Oh, just tryna look cute while abolishing the Board.”

He scoffs, amused. With a low laugh, Giorno nods, accepting her game. “Okay, then. Go ahead, doll.”

A knock in the door, and then Mista’s voice. “Ready? We gotta leave soon, Paolo always says the streets are a mess.”

Looking up, Giorno shouts back, “Give us five more minutes and we’ll be with you!”

Mista doesn’t reply, but from the sound of his boots clicking while he walks away, it’s clear he got it.

Speedwagon Foundation Headquarters, Dallas. 9:00 AM.

“Man, you’ve known me since I was just a brat, and you know I love books! Especially philosophy.”

Toby’s ears ring at the mention of philosophy: all traces of sleep leave his system at once and he finds himself looking at Abel as the albino takes a sip of his coffee, casually.

“Yeah,” he replies then, arching an eyebrow. He knows where it’s going, but he needs to hear it from him so he can do everything to let Catherine know it has begun.

“And the author wrote something that bleeew my mind! Listen: ‘who saves the weak from the man who saves the weak’ isn’t it, like, deep and way too strong? Like, it’s true. Think Robin Hood, he must have faced enemies who were weaker than the people he was protecting in the first place! Isn’t that unfair?”

As they walk out the store, Toby squints in Abel’s direction, “Yeah… I love that quote. It really makes you think,” he comes to a sudden stop on the sidewalk, not caring if people are still walking. Pulling his phone out, he grins at Abel, “Hold on, hold on —I need it on my status.”

Abel snorts, “You’re still posting statuses? What an old man.”

“Shut it.”

Message to Catherine Gupta:

What do you think about the quote Abel just said: ‘who saves the weak from the man who saves the weak’?

Catherine Gupta sent a message:

He must read a lot, when’s he taking a break?

Message to Catherine Gupta:

At ten.

Catherine Gupta sent a message:

Good. I’ll share the quote with Sunnie and Dio, bet they’ll love it.

“Hey, Morgan, Sunnie.” Catherine Gupta looks up from her phone and around the room, making sure her team’s looking at her and actually listening. “I’ve got you an interesting quote.”

Sunnie tilts her head to the side, trying to drown out any possible sound just in case even if they’re alone in Catherine’s office.

“The quote is ‘who saves the weak from the man who saves the weak’ isn’t it interesting? We should talk about it.”

Holy shit, it’s starting. Grinning widely, Sunnie nods twice in a row, looking back at Morgan, who’s already looking around for something.

“Catherine,” She calls, making the woman look back. “Can I…?” she gestures at the painting behind Catherine’s desk: wide enough for Dio to fit in.

“Go ahead.”

9:45 AM.

“Good morning,” Amanda stands up from her desk, recognizing the Director of the Italian SPW Foundation location, “Please come in, Mrs. Giovanna, Mr. Boyd and the rest are waiting for you.”

“Thank you,” Helena gives her a small, polite smile. Noticing the lack of reaction from her upon Giorno’s, Vittorio’s and Mista’s presence, but not saying anything. “Please, do not interrupt the meeting.”

Amanda nods as they come to a stop by the elevator, pressing a button to call for it. “Understood, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” averting her gaze to her name tag, Lena looks back into her eyes as soon as she reads over it. “Amanda.”

Amanda nods, a sincere smile her way. “If you need something, there’s a phone in the meeting room. You can call and we’ll send you anything you need.”

“Oh, thank you.”

As Amanda leaves, Mista mutters under his breath, only for them to hear. “Abel and Toby are coming our way.”

“Let them,” whispers back Giorno, without turning to look. “Keep the act up.”

Toby stops by the Donna’s side, sipping from his boba tea loudly. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

“Nah man, let’s just take the stairs.” Abel jokes, taking advantage of the situation —he turns around, walking away and into Rosalyn Lamb’s way. “Hey, Rosy! How's it going?”

Giorno squints, seeing the interaction from afar. ‘Good, he’s going to take her away from the meeting and possibly, let her know. If he does, then it’ll be late for her to do something about it. He’s perfectly capable of convincing her.’

9:48 AM.

The meeting room door is open, a clear invitation to those who haven’t made it yet.

Vittorio nods in their way, staying by the side to guard the door, hands behind his back and eyes straight into the wall before him.

As the couple and Mista come in, only three out of the six persons supposed to be there are already sitting at the table, coffee mugs and phones out.

Phil Leslie Boyd, Lockwood McCaul, Waylon Calhoum.

“Good morning.” Giorno’s the first to speak up. The reaction is immediate, glances thrown their way: all of them scrutinizing.

“Good morning.” Phil Leslie Boyd greets them back, eyes lingering on Lena for longer than he should. “Please have a seat, the rest will be here soon.”

10:41 AM.

Julia Langley and Cyril Whitfield burst through the door, pale faces with big, round eyes.

“Good morning, sorry for the delay.” Julia speaks up, sitting beside Boyd with a thud. “One of our members passed away this morning.”

“Oh,” Lena stares at her, acting surprised and shocked. “I’m so sorry…”

“What do you mean, exactly?” Lockwood McCaul frowns, turning in his chair to look at Julia directly. “Did she…?”

“Marilynn… She… They found her in her bathtub.” Cyril finally speaks up, looking down and into his own hands.

“Well,” Giorno stands up, walking back to the door, closing it and locking it. “That’s a shame, but we’re here for business, not a funeral.”

“You should respect your elders, Giovanna!” Cyril Whitfield shouts back, the tip of his ears flush red under his inability to keep his emotions under control.

“Ah,” Giorno smirks, coming back to Lena's side. “So you do know my name.”

“Of course we do,” Replies Lockwood McCaul, and before he can keep talking, Giorno does it.

“I’m not done talking,” he looks at Whitfield in the eye, declaring clear and loud. “Just because you're older doesn't mean I should respect you.”

“Insolent.” Cyril grits his teeth at him, and Giorno just smirks back.

“If you’re done,” Julia Langley grimaces, “What do you want? Why is the mafia suddenly requesting a meeting?”

“Excellent question,” Lena smiles at her, leaning on one manicured hand. Below the table, she touches Giorno’s hand, allowing her stand to enhance his freely. “The reason we’re gathered here today is because we found out something you should not have kept. Especially from us.”

Julia and Boyd tense, looking at each other.

“Oh, don’t give me those eyes,” Lena smirks, “Phillis, Jul. You know exactly what I mean.”

“Listen, woman!” Boyd raises his voice, “I didn't not accept this meeting to talk to a woman about business! I did it so I could talk to a man! A man is truly qualified to—”

“Listen, old fuck,” she leans back, a sweet smile plastered across her features even if her words scream otherwise. “I’ll say it once, and then you’ll shut the fuck up and listen, ‘cause that’s the only good thing you’re good for, and even then, we’ll see. Being a woman doesn't make me less than you, in any way or sense.”

“Sweetie,” Julia Langley tries to pick on, tone sweet but venomous words, “We can’t take you seriously dressed like that.”

“Like this, you mean?” Lena motions her outfit, proud. “I understand you envy my style, but it’s not a meeting about fashion: if it was, you’d be out. To start: your earrings—” Giorno walks by Julia’s side and, just when his hand grazes her hair from above her chair, her skin turns into gold. Julia’s statue keeps a terrified expression. There, trapped inside her body, she’s still able to hear them.

“—Your earrings don’t match with all that gold.” She chuckles, looking back at her husband, and he winks, eyes a shade of danger and wickedness that can be seen a few times.

“Someone of our trust informed us about a man you’ve kept as an asset. Does the name Dio Brando sound familiar?”

Boyd looks back at Giorno with wide eyes. McCaul, Whitfiel and Calhom try to turn and whisper between them before Giorno cuts them off with a thoughtful hum as he watches them.

“We can set him free.” McCaul offers, but Lena cuts him off.

“Gentlemen, we’re not asking for that.”

They seem to relax.

As Giorno circles the table until he’s in the front of the meeting room, Mista comes closer, giving him a folder.

With a flick of his wrist, he throws the folder in the middle of the table, managing to make it land open. “We demand you quit right now and we’ll spare your lives.”

Silence settles in. Disbelief, rage.

“This!” Phil Leslie Boyd stands up abruptly, pointing at Giorno, opening his mouth to speak when he’s silenced when a chain shoots up directly into his mouth, pressing his tongue down. He stumbles back, trying to see what’s happening.

“What did I just say?” Before him and from the other side of the table, Lena stands up, hands on her hips and eyebrow arched. By her side, Wire’s hand, keeping the chain pressed down onto Boyd’s tongue. “I said stay there, shut up and listen.”

Boyd chokes, drool spilling down. Eyes the size of dinner plates —the woman he had just been preying on believing she was just weak and egocentric turned out to be a nightmare, ridiculing him. Hurting his ego. Silencing him. Now, as Boyd stares back, fear paints his face, unable to do anything but fear her now.

“You were saying, love?”

Giorno nods, smirking. “As I was saying —we don’t trust you in this position: not only did you keep information from the whole organization you swore to work with for humankind, your thoughts do not match with the Foundation’s mission and vision.”

Lockwood McCaul stands up, pointing at the couple now. “You two hold no authority over this Foundation: you cannot decide who’s in charge! This is nothing but a felony! My lawyer will know about this!”

Julia Langley’s voice cuts through, deep, raspy, desperate and scared. “I’m out! I’m out!”

Collapsing into the ground, she coughs, and her skin lays around her in layers of gold. Tears pool at her eyes as she stands up, walking up to the table with shaking limbs. Retrieving a pen from Whitfield’s side, she signs the document without even reading.

Still in trembling legs, she leans back, falling into her chair. Hyperventilating.

“Anyone else?” Lena asks, seeing Waylon Calhoun reach out to the document, reading over it with shaking hands and sweat dripping down his forehead.

“Will you… Leave us alone if we sign this?”

“Yes.” Giorno lies.

Waylon Calhoun’s pen shakes along his hand as he signs, pulling back and lifting his hands. “Please don’t kill me, I… I don’t agree with this, but please, forgive me.”

Lena grins, “We’ll see.”

The chain disappears from Boyd’s mouth and he frowns, shouting at Helena, fear suddenly evolving into rage. “You who—”

“Finish that sentence and you won’t make it out of this room.” Glaring from the head of the table, Giorno’s eyes flash golden as Boyd looks back, immediately retreating, but adding instead:

“I will go and see my lawyer!” As if trying to scare him, Boyd turns to Giorno, only to see his perfectly calm demeanor when he replies:

“Go ahead, Mr. Boyd: It is written, you and everyone in this room has the right to express their disagreements, opinions and thoughts freely. It is your right so pursue it.”

Silence settles in as Boyd walks up to the door slowly, turning to look at Giorno every now and then: Lockwood MacCoul and Cyril Whitfield stand up, following him outside.

“Heard you're a lawyer, Giovanna: but you can’t defend yourself in court.” Cyril points at him, trying so hard to do it menacingly to no avail.

Turning to them, Giorno nods, so stern it sends a chill down their spines. “We’ll see, gentlemen. I’ll expect the notification and see you there.”

The door closes behind Boyd’s back and Julia Langley chokes on a sob, breaking the silence.

“You are despicable!” she mutters out, looking up at the couple, tears sliding down her cheeks, “Your power should be mine!” she gestures at herself, desperately. “I should have been the one with a stand! Not you, you’re nothing but—”

“Langley,” the Donna cuts her off, hip cocked to the side with a hand resting on top. “I don’t think you understand the definition of power —at least not stand power.”

“I do!” Julia shouts back, “I deserve it!”

Giorno Giovanna hums to himself, seeming to sense something from the arrow hanging around his neck. “Then,” taking the chain between two fingers, he pulls it up, showing the arrowhead that had been hidden under his burgundy dress shirt, “Let’s make a deal.”

Julia stares with big eyes, looking between the couple in disbelief. Lena’s position hasn’t changed, she knows her husband enough to know he won already.

Noticing Julia’s attention completely on him, the Don keeps up. “This, as you can see and might already know, is a stand arrow. It chose me to keep it under my power years ago. However, it is telling me you are worthy.”

“R-really?”

“Yes,” Giorno lies again, “The deal is: I will pierce you with it, and if you get a stand powerful enough, I’ll consider letting you into the Board back again.”

Julia Langley doesn't hesitate when she throws herself at him, stopped only by Wire’s cables and wires. “Yes, please! I’ll do anything! Look at me, think about who’s truly worthy!”

Taking it off, Giorno makes sure to wrap the chain around his wrist so she doesn’t try to take it away from him: then, holding int in his closed hand, he steps closer and taking advantage of Wire still restricting her, he presses the arrow against her hand, fast and precise, enough to draw a small wound in the zone.

It stings, making Julia step back and hiss, gripping at the wound to prevent it from bleeding even if the bleed does not mean harm.

“Contact us if you manage.” Lena declares, gesturing at the door, “Go home. Rest.” She's lying, too.

Julia Langley nods, rushing out with a wide grin. As she passes by Amanda’s desk, she doesn’t notice the receptionist's face as she talks on the phone, receiving horrifying news.

“So, you’re still here.” Turning to the last man, who still sits at the table, Lena turns to Waylon Calhoun, catching his permanent downturned lips in a line.

“Yeah,” he says, voice raspy and low. “Tell me, woman, do you understand chess?”

“I do,” she says, unaffected by the strange question. “But we’ve got no time for games, grandpa. I see your fear turned into whatever you’re trying to express, uh?”

“Back in my days women stayed silent while men spoke, but I see you don’t follow the tradition.” Looking up at Giorno, he speaks up again, following him as Giorno sits down before him, hiding the arrow back again. “You won’t fool me with the arrowhead thing: unlike Phil and Julia, I’m more qualified and not quick to rage. I will not step back, I am excellent.”

Giorno hums, “But you did sign the document already,” suddenly, her arms circle his neck and Giorno finds himself looking back at her, seeing the look in her eyes that screams vengeance and annoyance masked under calm hickory brown orbs that look straight into his soul. Accessing her plan, Giorno shifts until he’s in the right position for Lena to sit on his lap.

Turning around on the chair, Giorno secures his hands around her hips under Calhoun’s horrified stare.

“How dare you —this is a professional environment! You mustn’t do that here! Y—”

“You’re pissing me off,” A fifth voice joins in and Vittorio Ventura walks into the meeting room, strutting up to the table as Mista closes the door back again, a hand on his gun. “The times where women were treated like objects have ended,” Vittorio sits on the table, right beside Calhoun, his back turned to the Don and Donna. “I won’t let you insult her any more —and I won’t let you get in the way of his plans. You’re just entitled like the rest of the Board, you don’t deserve power. You deserve nothing, but to be an empty shell—”

Reaching out, Vittorio’s hand shines a green haze and his eyes shift to golden orbs only. Even when Calhoun tries to step back, Wire’s already holding his chair in place. When Vittorio’s hand touches his forehead, his stand manifests.

Tall, dressed in black papal regalia with a mysterious air around it, Square Hammer stands before Calhoun, imponent and silent. When Calhoun stares into its eyes, all sense of consciousness seems foreign under its stare.

Reaching a hand at his back, Vittorio turns to Lena with a calm look. “Donna, if you may…?”

“Of course, Vittorio.” She reaches out, touching the tip of his fingers with hers, letting Wire enhance his stand.

“Grazie.” He turns back, watching how Square Hammer bows at the Donna before his eyes shine a warmer tone, orange and then back at the usual golden.

“Right here, right now,” the stand pronounces, thick with an accent. “You will do as my user pleases.”

“Yes.” Calhoun admits, looking straight into Giorno’s eyes, frozen.

Vittorio nods to himself, standing up by Calhoun’s side. “Write: Catherine Gupta is the new President.”

“Yes.” Calhoun reaches out to the folder long forgotten in the middle of the table, bringing it close and taking out a pen from his perfectly tailored suit. He writes and signs quickly, eyes boring into the wooden table, without blinking nor even looking at the page directly.

High heels can be heard trailing rapidly in the meeting room’s direction. Tensing up, Mista leans back, looking through the glass door, “Don, it’s the receptionist —she’s coming our way.”

Square Hammer disappears, leaving Calhoun with the signed document midway through giving it back to Giorno, who takes it just when Amanda comes in, excusing herself.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Giovanna —I’m afraid the meeting has to end sooner, we just suffered the loss of three members.”

“Excuse me?” Lena asks back, pretending to be shocked.

Amanda sighs, leaning against the door. Pale face and lips dry. “Yeah, uh, Mr. Boyd, Mr. McCaul and Mr. Whitfield came out saying they were going for breakfast but… They got involved in a traffic accident… They didn’t make it alive.”

“I’m sorry,” Giorno speaks up, not moving from his spot even when he notices Calhoun’s scared eyes from the corner of his eye. “We’re almost done here, if you could give us five more minutes? I understand the decision could not be taken on consideration from what just happened, but as you might already know, Langley and Calhoun have the last word.”

Amanda nods, lowering her sight as she closes the door at her back.

“You… This is all your fault!” Calhoun points at the couple as he accuses them, trying to stand up only to end up falling back into Square Hammer’s mind control.

“I noticed they were trying to warn Amanda, so I did my best to control them all.” Explains Vittorio, looking at his bosses through furrowed eyebrows, “But I can’t do much but mind control, do you think…?”

“It’s Vivianne, definitely. Fugo’s watching through the cameras of this building and the ones on a certain radio.”

Vittorio nods, thoughtful. Looking back at Calhoun, he grimaces, looking back at his bosses, “What are we doing with him, then? He knows.”

“I’ll enhance Square Hammer again so you can make him walk out of here just like you did now with the signing.”

Giorno looks back at his wife, rubbing her back reassuringly. “Are you sure?”

“Mhm.”

Vittorio nods, reaching out and letting her touch him with the pads of her fingers: this time, something feels different, soothing, even. Like she’s focusing Wire’s energy into him.

“Get him out of here, make him drive home. Don’t let him answer calls, and if he does, make sure he says he’s devastated over Boyd and the rest.”

Giorno’s ears pick at the mention of the plan, remembering the reports. “Are you bringing him to Paolo?”

“Yeah,” she mutters back, “As you said, Langley and Calhoun were the most important —it’s done, now we just gotta let Catherine know.”

“Good,” Giorno hums, looking back at Vittorio. “Go ahead.”

Waylon Calhoun stands up slowly, walking out with eyes glued to the floor. As he walks by Amanda, she can’t do much but mutter her condolences, which fall to deaf ears. She doesn’t do too much about it.

The meeting room stays in silence, only Mista, Vittorio and the Dons stay there, sitting around the table. Pretending to be shocked —if they want their plan to come across, they have to act accordingly.

Until Giorno looks up from his hand, which is intertwined with Lena’s, only to look back and into the door. “Abel, I know you’re there.”

Abel chuckles, but he’s still hiding within the lights.

“Want something, boss?”

Giorno looks back at Lena, exchanging a look. She seems worn out —the way her brow furrows as Vittorio mumbles something about Calhoun being on the way back home a clear signal that they're still working on that, that she’s inevitably forcing herself to get him out of their way.

And so he looks back, speaking again. “Tell Gupta we’ll wait for her at Monarch Restaurant,” he looks up at the clock into the wall: 11:47 AM. “At one. Only her and Sunnie.”

“Roger that,” Abel whispers for one last time before he’s visible again: he opens the door and steps outside, closing it behind his back and walking away in fake sorrow.

Speedwagon Foundation Headquarters, Dallas. 12:00 AM.

Dread.

The Foundation’s corridors are filled with dread, clearly over the loss of the Board members.

Amanda stands by her desk, rearranging a stack of papers, slower and miscalculated —when Lena steps by her side, folder in hand and a fake scared face, she looks back with wonder.

“I’m not sure why,” The Donna starts, “But… After this, I mean Boyd, Martyn and the rest… Mr. Calhoun and Mrs. Langley seemed horrified, they… They said the foundation is not worth it, that it’s cursed. He gave us this and asked to be delivered to you.”

“Oh,” Amanda nods, taking the folder from her, failing to notice the lie as she opens the folder, “Did he say anything else?”

“Just to follow the orders?” Lena plays along, pretending to be confused over the man’s orders. “I’m not really sure, but I guess he asked because he thinks I hold any authority here.”

Amanda frowns, “Mrs. Giovanna, you do hold authority here, even if you’re not the director—” scanning over the words, she frozens.

Lena frowns and even if she’s still acting, her mind’s racing with the possible outcomes.

“They stepped back.” Amanda declares to herself, looking back at Lena with a nervous smile, “I, uh, I guess you’ll know later. But… We’ve got a new Board.”

Eyes the size of dinner plates, Lena nods, genuinely happy the strategy came across. “Oh! I mean, I didn’t expect that.”

Amanda shakes her head, “I’ll do the paperwork and send you the invitation. Don't worry, Mrs. Giovanna —and I’m sorry your meeting didn’t turn out the way you wanted.”

“Yeah,” Lena shakes her head, coming up with an excuse. “I thought they wanted to do some sort of investigation, but… It was all planned to step back, I guess… I guess the incident determined the events.”

Amanda nods, grieving. For a second, Lena’s facade drops and she allows herself to feel sad for her. Reaching a hand out, the Donna rubs Amanda’s arm, “See you later, Amanda.”

As she turns to leave, a voice cuts through, “Mrs. Giovanna!” Energetic as always, Abel rushes to her from the elevator, walking in big strides towards her. Immediately, Amanda’s attention drifts to the albino, then at Lena. Perhaps there’s a little bit of jealousness behind the wonder.

“Yes?” she turns to him, pretending not to know him.

Abel stops before her, leaning on his knees to recover from the race he just pulled up. When he finally looks up, his eyes show a certain degree of malice behind, and when he speaks up, Amanda’s face reddens.

“I was wondering if you wanted to go out for coffee? You’re like, suuuper pretty.”

Lena frowns, pretending offense even if she got the message. “I’m a married woman,” she says, pointing at Giorno, who’s by the door with Mista and Vittorio as they look around the Foundation’s reception. “He’s waiting there.”

Abel frowns, deciding to keep the act up, “Ah shoot, sorry ma’am. I’m—”

“For Nandor’s sake,” Toby steps up, pulling Abel from the collar of his sweater, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Giovanna —my cousin’s a bit of an idiot.” Pulling him back, Toby pretends to pull Abel by his sweater, back into the elevator.

Monarch Restaurant, Dallas. 1:00 PM.

The sounds of cutlery clicking against dishes and calm chatter fills the restaurant as Catherine steps in with Sunnie behind. As both look around the restaurant in search of the Dons, a hand shoots up and Sunnie’s quick to notice it, “Cat, over there.”

Walking over, Don Giovanna stands up to pull the chairs out for both of them, lending a hand to help them sit. A gentleman as he greets them, sitting back down.

“So…” Sunnie fiddles with the hem of her shirt, nervously awaiting for their response. Although the Foundation seemed affected with the news over the incident, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Don Giovanna leans back, lifting his glass of wine. With a triumphant smirk, he looks between Sunnie and Catherine before stating. “The Board is yours, President Gupta.”

Lena grins as the waiter comes over with two plates, setting them before the two women. “Shall we celebrate?”

Maple Ave, Dallas, Texas. 7:12 PM.

Waylon Calhoun did not know how he got there. As he woke up from that strange haze, he found himself in an unknown street, surrounded by unfamiliar buildings. In a particular dark alley, barely illuminated.

“Good evening.” A man suddenly speaks and Waylon turns to the direction the voice came from —there, an average man stands before him with a cloth mask covering half of his face, dark hair and green eyes with keyhole shaped irises.

“W-who are you?” Calhoun spats, defensive: scared.

“It is normal to be scared,” starts the man, “However, as my boss would say: did you ever think about how others would feel when you were doing whatever you did to deserve his rage?”

“What the hell are you talking about?! Stop this at once!”

The man sighs, taking his mask off. “Ah, I guess it's no use.” He grins, and only there, Calhoun can see his double round of teeth, making him freeze.

“You wrote a very interesting letter,” The man keeps talking, “Apparently, you don’t want to be in Dallas anymore.”

“Wha—”

“Yeah, I’ll help you out.” The man chuckles, “But where are my modals? My name is Paolo Aparigi and this…” he opens his mouth, bending forward as a green mass exits his body, straight from his lungs. As it falls, the mass starts to shift into its true form: slowly, a being with an astronaut suit stands by Paolo’s side.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Paolo grins. “This is Void, my stand: you can't see it, and that is logical, but I don’t care. I just love showing off.”

The stand’s hands seem to knead something dark with a ring of iridescent light as it walks up closer to Calhoun, who backs down, trying to escape.

Before he reaches the wall, Void throws a dark ball to him.

Calhoun disappears in silence.

“Interesting,” Paolo looks back at Void, grinning wickedly. “It took you less time!”

Void nods, as if accepting its users' praise.

Florence St, Dallas, Texas. 2:21 AM.

‘Goddammit, Giovanna. Curse you, curse you and your wife! Curse you!’ Julia Langley lays in bed, sweating and unable to speak or move, feeling the waves of pain along her body. The way she drifts between consciousness and unconsciousness is too painful to bear.

And the way her throat closes doesn't help. The way her vision blurs and colors change is too much to keep her eyes open: and even when she closes her eyes, there are strange forms moving behind her eyelids.

She’s unable to breathe, her throat closes. Her blood pressure decreases, and slowly, all the pain is gone.

Emma Langley comes home that morning, sensing somethin’s off. When she arrives, her mother doesn’t respond to the door, even if it’s Saturday and she has the weekends off.

Maybe it’s because she cut her out of her life —then again, she had always been overbearing and toxic, but that morning when Emma woke up, there was a strange feeling down her spine.

Forcing the door open was not a great idea.

By the time the paramedics arrive, one of them pulls her aside, his name is Hans, he says, and your mother’s no longer with us, he declares, taking note of her reaction just in case she needs assistance.

When Emma comes to her mother’s office the day after, she finds out she quit on the day she passed away.

There’s a blond man talking to Amanda, he gives her strange vibes. He seems to notice her lingering stare and when he looks back, green eyes with a golden flash, she freezes, sensing something from him —the same feeling she’d get every time she’d see ghosts coming from alive people.

The way he asks “can you see them?” makes Emma look back at the woman by his side, whose ghost floats behind.

“So you can,” she declares, “This is Wire.”

“What you see is not a bad thing, Emma.” The man speaks up when she stares into Wire’s eyes, mesmerized. “If you want to learn more, contact Catherine Gupta, and she’ll do the rest.”

Bocelli Enzo stares off into the wall as the screen of his phone connects to the video call. Around him, the twins and Westwood giggle.

Until a voice cuts through, bringing him back, and making the Giovanna twins look up.

“Good night, Dr. Bocelli.”

He blinks, looking back at the screen: there, Giorno and Helena sit side by side, pajamas and towels making it clear they got back recently: tired eyes but satisfied smiles.

“Good night, Giogio and Lena.” he bows, smiling. “How did it go?”

Lena sighs, breaking into a grin. “It’s done, everything went just right.”

Jovi and Dante babble, giggling and yelling in excitement as they climb into the couch and by Enzo’s side: two little faces with wide grins come into the camera's range.

“Dadda! Mamma!”

Giorno laughs, wholeheartedly; sincere. “Hey, how’s it going?”

Lena grins, waving and blowing kisses.

As the twins wave back and giggle, Westwood sits on the armrest, scanning the room around his bosses. The lights are almost off, with the only source of light being the one coming from the outside, the Donna’s eyelids close involuntary even when her smile is genuine and her eyes light up with each second that the twins babble and wave at her. The Don looks calmer, back to his stern nature, but toned down for his family.

They made it go well. Judging by the lack of movement from Lena, he can guess she exceeded her limits with Wire: the lights off probably mean she has a migraine.

Judging by the way Giorno stares momentarily at him and then back at the twins shows just how worried he was, and how he had to see her suffer while worrying about his sons. How he had to talk to those persons and not punch them like he’d do to a punching bag.

They made it. And it costed tears, blood and sweat.

Bocelli looks back at him, eyes momentarily averting to the Dons in a silent message.

“Glad to hear that.” the older man says, looking back at the couple. “What’s next?”

Giorno sighs, leaning back and bringing Lena closer to him. She closes her eyes, resting her head against his chest.

The twins settle down —Dante sits by Bocelli’s side, leaning on him. And upon Jovi’s grabby hands, Westwood sits by Dante’s side, cuddling Jovi.

“We’ll stay a couple days more just to make sure everything’s settled down. We need to make sure every single thing went down in our favor.”

“I see,” West nods, rubbing Jovi’s back when the boy turns around, smacking his lips but trying to keep watching his parents through heavy eyelids. “Then we’ll wait for you.”

Opening her eyes and looking up, Lena nods, unable to focus her sight due to the way her head pounds in her ears. “Thank you, Dr. Bocelli.”

Bocelli nods, pressing his lips in a tight line —looking down, he sighs once he sees the twins deep asleep.

“You can rest now,” he says, “They’re asleep and happy.”

Giorno nods, smiling back at Bocelli —and there, Bocelli can see the twins’ smiles. Genetics were truly interesting.

“Thank you, Bocelli, West. See you.”

Both men nod and the call ends.

“C’mon, doll.” Mumbling low, Giorno turns to his wife, leaving the laptop aside. “You need to rest.”

“Mhm.” She mumbles, unable to form words as she hides from the light. The bed dips by her side when Giorno stands up, closing the eyelids and turning off the laptop, trying to leave the room in mere darkness.

Coming back to her, Giorno lays back down, pulling her close. As soon as she’s cuddling him, his hand covers her eyes just in case.

“Sleep,” he whispers, gentle. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

The Speedwagon Foundation in Dallas suffered the loss of three Board members during a car accident, where Philip Leslie Boyd’s car ended up colliding against a parked trailer truck. During the incident, Philip Leslie Boyd, Lockwood McCaul and Cyril Whitfield passed away due to entrapment. By the time the SPW ambulance came, they no longer possessed vital signs.

During the early morning the day after, Julia Langley passed away suddenly. Her autopsy revealed she had suffered an anaphylactic reaction. Her daughter found her.

A week after, Waylon Calhoun was reported missing by a relative: when the case was investigated, a note was found, where he expressed he didn’t wish to stay in Dallas and, instead, he wished to disappear after the loss of his comrades. The note claimed the Dallas Board was cursed.

#severed soul: waking up resistance calls #SunnieD #GioLena #read the warnings!!!

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