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Chapter Text

1880

London, England

A rasping cough bounded down against the dirt-caked walls, rattled thick with mucous and spittle as it spluttered wetly from a nearly toothless mouth. From the bed the old man, balding save for the long strings of white hair that fell loose about his shoulders, sat up; with one swollen and discolored finger, he pointed at the high-backed emerald chair the boy lounged in with one leg crossed languidly over the other, a book propped open with one hand, the only light in the dwelling a burning candle at the table beside him.

“Dio! Come here!” 

The boy ignored him, a wave of revulsion and hate pulsing in his throat.

“Dio! Are you deaf, boy?”

With an irritated snap the boy shut the book and stood, surveying the squalor he dwelled within with a disdainful glare as he set the book down on the table beside a tray holding a pitcher of water, a glass, and medicine the boy knew to be poison. Bottles of drink were strewn about the bloated wooden floors, the walls streaked with dirt and grime. At the opposite end of the hovel the old man lay confined to a bed, his beard unkempt and wild eyes trained on the boy.

Impoverished as they may have been, the hovel had fallen into far greater disrepair after the death of his mother, a premature death brought about by the old man forcing her to work herself into an early grave, a sin the boy could not pardon. With her passing came the end of the money that had largely went to the old man’s drinking and gambling and the beginning of his cruelty turned fully onto the boy, yet another sin against him the youth could not forgive as he had forced the boy to sell his mother’s finest dress.

The boy sighed.

“What do you want, Father? Medicine?”

He eyed the poison on the tray. 

“Idiot,” the man hurled the word from his lips like vomit and the boy scowled. “I have no need for snake oil! If you have money, go buy me some booze!”

The man vaulted an empty bottle at the boy’s face; deftly, he moved his head to the side as the bottle shattered into pieces against the wall behind him.

***

Confidently, the boy moved forward his chess piece, a small victorious smile on his lips. A warm plate of croquettes, chips, baked beans, sausage and peas lay waiting beside him; the spoils of his previous match, set aside so that he could earn just a little more coin. Lack of means did not prevent the boy from being a prodigy, something he often used in his favor to hustle drunkards at the nearby pub and put food in his belly, and tonight would be no exception. He could not rely on that bloated bastard for survival, he had to eke out his path in London on his own.

“Check.”

The man across him stammered in indignation, eyes narrowed as they fixed on the chess board. Ignoring the pang of hunger in his gut, he watched with no small amount of satisfaction as the man fished a handful of change from his pocket and tossed it to the table, landing beside his waiting plate with a jangling thud.

“Fine,” he muttered angrily. 

Reaching for the shillings, he did not notice the man’s hand shooting toward the thicket of blonde hair that had just barely passed the nape of the boy’s neck. With brute force he had shoved the boy’s head into the plate, rubbing his face into the food the way one would punish a dog for urinating on the floor. 

“Feeling smart now, kid?” The man taunted him with a smug grin as his face moved against the plate, its contents making their way into the boy’s nose and grimacing mouth. He grasped the change into his clenched fist with gritted teeth, shaking in anger under the man’s hand.

***

The boy stood beside his father’s bed, barely suppressing a smirk as the the man lifted a crumpled envelope in his shaking hand. 

“Dio, my time is almost up.”

Good, thought the boy. That means the poison is working.

“Listen! When I die, take this letter to the Joestar mansion! Their debt to me is great. You’re a crafty lad.”

Craftier than you will ever know. 

“I want you to become the richest man the world’s ever seen!”

***

In the hazy London twilight, surrounded by little more than barren trees and calling crows, the boy stood at a grave, red eyes gleaming with triumph in the cold settling night.

DARIO BRANDO

BORN 1827

DIED 1880

Leaning back, he savored his victory; his final comeuppance at the man that had beaten and bloodied him and forced him into a life of poverty and cruelty. Slowly he had poisoned the man, watching with great pride as he withered away into nothing, sparing no guilt as he ushered the bastard to his death.

You hideous, devious…

Smart as he may have been, there were not enough words to convey the hatred and disgust he had felt for him, and so he trailed off.

You drove Mother to the grave. You bastard of a father! You want me to be rich? I’ll show you. And I’ll use any means necessary. 

Shaking with quiet rage, the boy crumpled the envelope he held tightly in his hand.

I’ll start with this Joestar. 

“Now burn!”

He spat at his father’s grave, his one final act toward the man cursing him to an eternity in the pits of hell. Quietly stuffing the envelope into his coat pocket, he picked up the suitcase beside him, the contents within all the meager possessions he had acquired over the short twelve years of his life.

He had no aspirations for wealth, were he to be honest. What he wanted, what he would secure at all costs, was power. A final nail in his father’s coffin, he would become something to be feared, adored; the world would tremble at his feet and he, untouchable, would only sit back and laugh.

Resolution burning bright in his vermillion eyes, he made way down the path leading to the cemetery gates.

Somehow or another, the world would know Dio Brando.

***

1888

Liverpool, England

That damnable bastard Jonathan, how he had loathed him so.

To Dio, Jonathan was the embodiment of everything he despised. He had come to wealth and renown so easily, by little more than birth alone, and yet still he did not know just how privileged he was. Never did he have to worry about food on his plate or a bottle hurled at his head, never did he feel the strike of a fist at his jaw; no eye that fell upon his countenance did so with disgust, lingering at the dirt smeared across his cheek or the shabby state of his clothing. Never did he walk the cobblestones of Whitechapel hustling for change, never did he suffer as Dio had.

And yet he had the audacity to throw it in his face and try to be his “friend”, a cheap bid at pity from a nobleman to an urchin.

He had tried to put Jonathan in his place well enough. Alienating him from his peers and casting him out as one would a leper had worked with considerable aplomb until that simpleton crossed paths with Erina Pendleton. That, too, Dio had destroyed, stealing Erina’s first kiss beneath the tree Jonathan had so moronically carved “Jojo + Erina” into a heart on its bark. Though that had proved both rash and insightful, as Jonathan had in his fury bested Dio for the first time and given him a glimpse into his true nature. And Jonathan had paid soundly for it when Dio had chained his beloved dog Danny with a muzzle and shut him into a box, throwing it into the waste incinerator and waiting for a hapless servant to set it and the mutt ablaze. 

Dio had changed tactics then, lulling Jonathan into a false sense of security with brotherly kinship as the two attended Hugh Hudson. In school he had used his academic acuity to his advantage and rose to the top of his class, graduating with intent to gain employment as a barrister. At home he played the perfect son, outshining Jonathan so much so that he had been confident George Joestar would name him heir to the family fortune upon his death. Like his own father, that death would be engineered by Dio himself with the same poison he had purchased from a fortune teller hailing from Asia; that power he craved so close he could taste it like wine on his tongue. 

Everything had worked so smoothly in his favor until Jonathan had found that letter. 

When he had embarked for Ogre Street to prove Dio’s plot against George Joestar’s life, Dio was confident he would not return. Though his insistence that trusted physicians hand him his medicine had hampered Dio’s ambitions, it mattered not; he was confident that word would soon reach the Joestar estate that Jonathan had perished at the hands of a thug, and Dio’s position would be secured. 

Now here he stood, candlestick in hand, watching Dio with a pain in his eyes that he had relished as he had prepared to handcuff Dio with at his own insistence, lightning pealing outside the grand windows of the estate throwing he, his loathsome companion Speedwagon, the turned back of George Joestar and the officers that flanked them all into sharp relief; all the while Wang Chan, that fortune teller from whom he had procured the poison, watched quietly with a smug grin.

They did not know of Dio’s backup plan.

For all his schooling, Jonathan remained an idiot. Despite choosing archaeology as his field of study he did not know the true significance of the stone mask that served as little more than a decorative statement piece in the mansion, the immortality it offered when drenched in blood. He had tested it mere hours before in the streets of Liverpool initially to see how it would kill Jonathan, stumbling drunk as shamefully as his father while scrambling for a victim. He had found one in a withered old brute that had nearly drained him dry before the dawn had claimed him.

The mask, along with a curved dagger, now rested snug in the sling he wore across his arm, and all he needed do was wait for the opportune moment to present itself.

“Jojo,” he said quietly as he feigned a resigned smile. “Humans have their limits…don’t you agree?”

Surprise dwelled within the clear blue of Jonathan’s eyes, and he watched Dio carefully.

“I’ve learned something in my short life. The one more schemes, the more unpredictable life becomes. So as long as one remains human…”

Dio paused, a light smile resting on his lips as Jonathan gave a start. 

“You’ve gone mad,” Jonathan said quietly, uncomprehending. Raising his voice slightly, the handcuffs jangled in his hands. “What do you mean?”

The opportune moment. 

Brandishing the stone mask in one hand, Dio let out a triumphant cry. 

“I reject my humanity, Jojo!” 

With the other he cast aside the sling, the curved dagger stowed away within it in hand, his smile in perfect mimicry of its blade.

“I’m about to transcend humankind!”

Jonathan stared at him wide-eyed, his mouth falling open in shock. 

“The stone mask! How?!”

“Watch out!” Speedwagon cried.

“Shoot him,” the constable bellowed. “Now!”

Dio lunged forward, surrendering fully to his own madness. “And I’ll use your blood, Jojo!”

He had aimed for Jonathan’s abdomen, but George had leapt in front of his son and the blade sunk deep into his back. Collapsing into Jonathan’s arms as he screamed, Dio donned the mask as he laughed.

No matter. Blood is blood.

With his fingers he dragged the blood of George Joestar down the mask’s face, laughing all the while as its six prongs pierced into his skull.

***

The Atlantic Ocean

Northwestern Coast of Africa

February 7th, 1889

Wang Chan proved a faithful servant. 

The events in Windknight’s Lot had left Dio as little more than a head ensconced in glass; out of self-preservation he had severed it from his own body while it disintegrated from within as Jonathan’s Hamon surged through him. A minor inconvenience, Dio had decided, but one easily remedied: he would kill Jonathan and take his body for his own. And so under his command Wang Chan had secured him passage on the same vessel Jonathan and Erina had boarded to spirit them away to America for their honeymoon, stowing him carefully away in a heavy-lidded coffin lined with a false bottom that he would use as his means of escape. 

He had settled on Jonathan’s body for three reasons: one, it would be the final insult against the man that had so undeservedly been given everything. Two, in some twisted way he had come to respect the man. Only Jonathan had come close to defeating him, Jonathan was the one that sabotaged his aspirations. Lastly, he was the only one whose body was comparable to the one he had lost. It was the most fitting replacement for Dio, and he would secure it at all costs.

With Wang Chan listening attentively, Dio had forged his plan.

First, the two would set about turning the ship’s passengers into a horde of mindless zombies, tearing each other apart as Erina and Jonathan were caught in the ensuing uproar. He had planned for Erina to be devoured in the chaos, but by some stroke of luck she had evaded such a fate. Then Wang Chen would bring out Dio and once he freed himself from the glass, he would dealt Jonathan the killing blow at any cost and take what was rightfully his: Jonathan’s life.

Now, as the ship crashed down around them in a plume of bright orange flames, he found himself cradled to Jonathan’s chest as the light left his eyes. 

He’s dead.

Left with no other choice, Dio moved quickly, severing Jonathan’s head with little more than his own veins that dangled obscenely from his neck. His vampiric abilities had granted him great control of what remained of his body and allowed him to twist and control it as it distorted to his will. Attaching himself to the bloody stump, he left Jonathan’s head to burn, quietly crawling to the coffin as the remnants of Jonathan’s resolve warred against his control and shut himself inside its hidden compartment, distinctly feeling the shift of Erina’s weight as she clambered into the coffin atop where he lay. Curiously, Dio noted two heartbeats, the owner of the second making itself known to him as the cries of an infant rattled in the coffin while Erina shut the lid. 

With scorching force the coffin was launched from the wreckage as the ship broke apart in a series of explosions, and the three were set adrift in the Atlantic Ocean.

Patiently Dio waited, his hunger slowly creeping in as his head grafted to the body and breathed into it life, and he considered  breaking past the wooden panel that concealed him to bleed Erina dry as he heard the coffin lid open. Well aware of the daylight that would await him he decided against it, opting to bide his time until nightfall.

Then, the coffin grew light as a ship drew near and the pressure around him shifted, growing tight and heavy as the sound of crashing water closed over the shut lid.

He was sinking.

Cursing himself, he drifted to the waters below.

***

The Canary Islands

July 2021

Fate had finally cast its gaze favorably upon Dio Brando, elation soaring through him as the seabed beneath him fell away and he descended swiftly upward.

Trapped in that damnable coffin for over one hundred and thirty years and nearly mad with hunger, Dio waited patiently as night descended upon the cargo ship before he burst from its hidden compartment and drained the crew dry. Allowing it to drift aimlessly toward Tenerife, bloated and drunk with blood and wearing outlandishly styled clothes he had stolen from one of the crewmen’s luggage, he stretched his legs for the first time in a century and walked to the bow, casting his gaze to the shore as he tossed the crew’s bodies into the depths of the Atlantic below. 

“It was only a hundred years,” he said softly to the waves with a small laugh. “What’s a little while longer in the water?”

Diving into the water headfirst, he swam for Tenerife’s port.

Chapter Text

It always amazed you, the duality of Los Angeles. 

Take, for example, the bar you worked at. Sure, it was a rooftop bar at a swanky hotel in the Fashion District and your average patron were influencers decked out in outfits from Fashion Nova and Missguided who all looked so eerily similar to one another that you would not be able to pick one out in a police lineup; yet a mere few blocks away lay Skid Row, that forsaken redoubt for the addicted where you either kept your wits about you or got mugged by a man that thought he was the reincarnation of Christ. There was a solid linearity between the two identities of the City of Angels, a name that felt like a mockery if you drove down any main thoroughfare and saw the juxtaposition of tent villages lining streets that boasted multi-million dollar homes.

But occasionally those two identities would bleed into one, one solid cohesive being, and Los Angeles would be a united city. A Dodgers win. Universal hatred for transplants driving up housing costs. Influencers gentrifying the area at an alarming rate. A police chase on the 405. A famous death. A murder trial. All of those had the power to bring everyone together for just one clandestine moment in time. But more than anything, it was the promise of a good story that brought the city to its feet and cast aside its barrier between the masses. 

It was on an unseasonably muggy July evening when you clocked into work at the bar that you found yourself thrust into one of those peculiar nights where all of walks of LA life united at the rooftop, overpriced drinks in hand and heads bowed over bright phone screens as they spoke in fervent whispers and wild gestures. Something big had happened, you realized, something you had somehow missed, and with a raised eyebrow you headed behind the bar.

Did someone die?

“Can I get a frozé?” A woman, credit card and driver’s license in hand stood just across you and startled you out of your thoughts, eyes luminous as she handed you the cards; you hadn’t even had time to put her order in before she had continued talking. “What do you think happened with the cargo ship?”

Wait. This is over a boat? God, the news cycle must be garbage right now.

You mustered up the most sincere effort of an expression of surprise you could manage as you donned that all too familiar customer service mask. “I actually didn’t hear about it, what cargo ship?”

“Oh my god, wait, really?! It’s so crazy, I literally can’t believe you haven’t heard.” Leaning over the bar top, she beamed, displaying a perfect row of dazzlingly white teeth that stood in harsh contrast to her deep sprayed tan; breaking a major story to an unsuspecting person was almost a sport on days like this. You yourself were guilty of it at times, eager to be the first to text a friend or family member with a TMZ article detailing some trending headline you otherwise cared little about. 

Pausing for dramatic effect, the girl’s expression became serious. “Okay so, three days ago they found a cargo ship that was adrift off the Canary Islands with a coffin from like, the nineteenth century or something on it. But here’s the thing. All the crew members were missing. Vanished without a trace. And the coffin was completely empty. No one knows what happened, not even TMZ. It’s been all over the news, social media, everywhere. Even my grandma sent me something about it.” 

Taking out the frozé mix from the freezer under the bar and saying a quiet prayer of thanks to the morning crew for prepping a fresh batch before opening—no one had ordered a frozé in months and you were not quite sure why you still sold them to begin with, but it was gradually gaining renewed popularity in the sweltering heatwave that was ravaging the city with little sympathy—you turned to the woman.

Actually, that’s pretty interesting. No wonder everyone’s talking about it.

“Wait, really?” As interested as you were, you were over exaggerating your shock; thankfully she didn’t notice as you dropped a sliced strawberry and edible flower over the drink as a garnish. Tips were better the more engaged you were in conversation no matter who was talking, and you still had rent to pay.

Ringing her up, you looked over your shoulder toward the rest of the bar as you handed her back her driver’s license and the drink. “Want me to keep a tab open or just the one drink tonight?” 

“Oh, keep a tab. But yeah, what do you think happened?”

With a shrug, you glanced up at her briefly while she took a sip, allowing some shred of wonder to take hold as she awaited your reply. Tossing your hands in the air before putting one on your hip, you met her gaze and shifted your weight where you stood.

“God, I don’t even know. How would they just go missing like that? No signs of foul play or anything?”

“Nothing. Not even a drop of blood or a body. Just, poof—” the girl spread her hands out, wiggling her fingers for dramatic effect, “—gone.”

Remembering the coffin, you cracked a sarcastic grin.

“Maybe the coffin had a vampire in it.”

It was a joke, but the girl nodded. 

“Imagine, right?” Animatedly, she threw her hands up in emphasis, nearly spilling her drink on the man waiting beside her. “Like, what if this is some Dracula shit in real life? How insane would that be?”

“Very,” you agreed before she bounced off toward a crowded table by a fire pit, the spot she had occupied immediately filled by another patron eager to broach the same subject.

Most of the night played out in much of the same manner. After a while it felt as if you were reading from a script, occasionally bouncing off theories with your coworkers and with customers alike, no one entirely too sure what to make of it all. It was on everybody’s mind, at the tip of everybody’s tongue. How could people just go missing? In this day and age? It made no sense.

By the time your shift had ended and you climbed wearily into the car, even you were fully caught up in the intrigue.

The details around the cargo ship grew stranger by the day and as they did, so did the conversations around it. First, it came out that all of the crew’s belongings were still on the ship. Then, a slew of strange disappearances happened—in Tenerife, then Marrakesh, Rabat, Algiers, Tripoli and finally Cairo—all of them inexplicable in nature, as if they had simply vanished from thin air, their wallets and belongings and cars left behind.

Then a woman had been found dead in an abandoned mansion in Cairo, three puncture wounds at her neck and her body nearly depleted of blood.

At that point the conversations went from idle chatter to a full blown uproar. Connections were made and theories grew wilder, and half the people you would ask were convinced the disappearances and the woman were the work of a serial killer. The other half were staunch believers that it was something far greater, something firmly rooted in a concept greater than common understanding; by the time Halloween had rolled around everyone had the same question at the ready: who—or what—was on that ship and who was the woman in Cairo?

When you had clocked in the Saturday night before Halloween, hastily adjusting your rushed costume—little more than a pair of cat ears you had rummaged from a bin at Party City at the last minute and a black tank top; a heart drawn onto your nose with liquid eyeliner and some whiskers on your cheeks—you had even seen people dressed up as ghostly crew members with holes drawn on their necks for the bar’s costume contest, something you had found a bit disdainful but otherwise unsurprising. There were always people willing to make a tragedy into a mockery on Halloween. Even when social distancing had been lifted, people were dressing in cheap hazmat suits pretending to be Patient Zero.

Of course people were going to make Halloween costumes out of this shit, too.

Rolling your eyes as you poured a shot for a group of freshly twenty-one year olds celebrating their first legal Halloween, you headed to the POS system to open a tab for them when a voice spoke clearly behind you.

“It would seem that there is a bit of excitement in the air, wouldn’t it?” 

The voice was deep, holding an almost lilting tone to it, each word clipped with the slightest hint of an accent you could not quite place as they fell over you, rich and smooth and velvet. 

“Always is when there’s a big story,” you said as you turned. 

Your breath caught in your throat when you matched the voice to its person.

You had seen plenty of attractive people walk into the bar, but he was the first you had actually done a double take with. Tall, almost intimidatingly so, with blonde hair that fell past his shoulders, softening the angular cut of his jaw and the prominence of his high cheekbones, he looked as if he had stepped off the cover of a magazine. You could briefly make out three moles traveling up his ear lobe in a slight curve beneath his hair, and beneath the collar of his shirt a faint line across his throat like drawn barbed wire peeked out. Rich and full, his lips curled into a close-mouthed smile, his head cocked slightly to the side as he studied you. 

Had it not been Halloween you would have considered him strangely dressed; clad in a black tanktop with a mock-neck collar that stretched taut over the broad expanse of his chest and paired with a yellow-gold jacket, you were not sure what he was supposed to be dressed up as at all.

What is he, a wasp? Interesting take on it, I guess.

Whatever he was supposed to be, it suited him, and you found your eyes traveling down from his face to the chiseled musculature beneath his shirt.

Damn. He’s kind of hot. 

“But you’re bored of this ‘big story’,” he said simply. “Aren’t you?”

He crossed his arms, giving you a once-over with a knowing gleam in his eye. Certain you were caught, you felt your cheeks flush red beneath his gaze.

“Between you and me,” you managed in an effort to save face; it was never good to let a customer think you were checking them out. “I’ve heard enough about ghost ships for at least two lifetimes.”

His laugh like the tide at the shore, it sent a jolt of electricity through you. “On that, we can agree.”

Pull yourself together, you’re acting like an idiot.

“What can I get you?” You did your best to not sound flustered; something in his eyes told you that you were failing.

“Red wine,” he answered. 

Taking the opportunity to evade his gaze long enough to collect yourself you dipped beneath the bar, glancing over the bottles stowed away and making a mental note to replace the Merlot before straightening up and grabbing a wine glass.

“You’re over twenty-one, right? Any preference? We have Cabernet Sauvignon, Pinot Noir, Merlot, Zinfandel and Shiraz.”

“I am,” he said with a smirk you could not quite figure out. “And I’ve no particular preference, no. Why don’t you surprise me?”

“Well,” you grabbed the bottle of Merlot, grateful for him granting you the means to do away with the last of its contents. “In that case, you’re getting a Merlot. But you have to promise you won’t get shitty about it if you don’t like it.”

“I promise,” he intoned in a voice that almost sounded mocking, his eyes not once leaving you as you uncorked the bottle. In the dim light, you could make out the tips of two fangs over his canine teeth.

Maybe not a wasp, then.

“Let me guess. You’re a vampire, right?”

The man’s reaction was, for a brief moment, decidedly odd. He did a double take as he eyed you carefully, something almost dangerous in his stare, before his expression smoothed.

“Brilliant guess,” he said with a small nod, showing off his teeth. They had blended so seamlessly into his real ones that you could not tell where the caps ended and his actual canines began. A small, unbidden shudder shook your spine and you paused.

He must have money or something, those are really good. They look real.

Casting a long glance over your face and headband before subtly looking over your waist, he pointed at you; though he had been less obvious than you were, it was evident he was doing so with an appreciative eye. “And what are you supposed to be?”

Pouring the glass of wine, you found yourself wanting to keep him nearby as you handed it off. 

“I’m “I didn’t plan ahead so I’m whatever I could scrounge up in a panic before work.” This year, I’m a cat.”

His eyes lingered over your face, then flicked upward to the headband. “You’ve adorned yourself quite nicely. For ‘whatever could scrounge up in a panic’.”

What a weird compliment.

But it made you smile nonetheless.

“I, uh—thanks.”

Changing the subject, you leaned over the counter.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

“England,” he took the glass, that strange look in his eye as he said it making you feel as if he had found the entire interaction so far one great joke at your expense. “I arrived quite recently.”

You brushed it off. “Oh, really? Business or just visiting?”

“Perhaps a bit of both.”

Leaning forward in turn, he spoke softly, so close that you could make out the exact shade of pink of his lips; briefly, you wondered if he was leaning in to kiss you before mentally chiding yourself. You’re at work. Dial it back. 

“What’s your name?”

“(Y/N).” It had came out more breathy than you would have liked to admit, and he smiled, the peculiar edge to it sending your pulse into overdrive at your throat.

“So, (Y/N).” The way he said your name as he leaned back made you blush; almost indecent on his tongue, it was as if he had whispered it in your ear like a lover. “Though you’ve made it clear the subject bores you, I am quite curious. What do you think happened to those crew members? Everyone is so keen to share their opinion, I’m rather interested in yours.”

The question was like a bucket of cold water dunked over your head. With a shrug, you answered him in a shaky attempt at nonchalance. “Honestly? I don’t know. I’ve just been joking about vampires because of the coffin.”

With a cheeky grin, you pointed at his teeth. “Hell, maybe it was you.”

Again, his reaction proved odd. Something you could not place flashed in his eyes at that, something that sent a chill down your spine not unlike the slight unease at the seamless blend of the caps over his teeth. Just as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished, and he laughed. 

“A vampire would be a salient theory, were it not for the fact that the boat was discovered in broad daylight.” He brought the wine to his lips, his eyes on you over the rim. 

“Guess that explains why the coffin was empty, doesn’t it? The sunlight?” 

“I suppose it would.” He spared a small glance down the bar. “Excellent choice, by the way, the wine. But it seems our interlude is stealing you away from other patrons. The other barkeep seems to be quite irritated with you.”

Pointing a long, slender finger at the other end of the bar, he smirked; following it, you met the stare of your coworker, visibly annoyed as he cocked his head toward the crowded bar. 

“Oh, shit—right. Sorry!” Smiling apologetically at him, you turned your attention back to the man. “Glad you like the wine, uh…I didn’t get your name.”

“Find me after your shift is finished and I’ll give it.” He slid a twenty dollar bill toward you, his features drawn into a sly grin as his eyes briefly lingered on the cat ears you wore before dipping over your figure. Leaning forward once more, his lips hovered at your ear.

“It truly is a quite fitting costume you’ve put together for yourself,” he whispered in a low voice, “when you consider how you’ve been behaving as if you’re a cat in heat from the moment we first spoke. I assure you, my name is not all I plan to give you tonight.” 

He disappeared into the crowd and you did your best to draw your heartbeat out from between your legs as you swallowed air into your lungs.

Jesus Christ. That’s the worst line I’ve heard in a while. Why did it work? 

Fumbling in your steps as you crossed the bar to help your coworker and took the nearest drink order, you spent the rest of your shift trying to locate him in the throng. Occasionally you spotted him, lounging in a dark corner surrounded by people falling over themselves to talk to him, his stare patronizing as he indulged their conversation, doing nothing to move the errant languid arm that would find itself thrown across his shoulders. Every time, it was as if he knew you were watching and those amber colored eyes would meet your gaze, a knowing smile on his lips as they glowed in the dimly lit room like a rolling flame. Then, around midnight, he had sauntered out, three women and one man trailing in his wake, and he did not return.

So much for finding you, you had thought with a frown as you and your coworkers began closing up the bar, embarrassed at how easily you had fallen for his stupid pick-up line. 

It was unlike you, fawning over someone you did not even know. There was a strange magnetism to him, almost hypnotizing, that exchange at the bar like a spell he had cast over you; his eyes on yours burning candles at his altar.

“What?” in a teasing voice, the bar back sidled up to you as you counted your till, a mischievous smile arching across his cheeks. “You’re still moping over that guy? Can’t blame you. I was hoping he would come smolder at me over a wine glass too, and I’m straight.”

“It was so weird, dude,” you set down the stack of twenties you were counting. “I’ve never gotten all hot and bothered over someone at work like that. It was like I couldn’t even control it! And the way he talked, like it was so weird. He called us barkeeps and said I “adorned myself nicely.” What does that even mean?”

He laughed, dipping a fresh rag into a small red bucket filled with sanitizer and wiping down the countertop with one quick sweep of his arm. “I don’t know, but you looked like you were into it. When he leaned over the bar to whisper at you I thought you were going to drag him off to the bathroom and fuck him then and there.”

“Oh fuck off,” you shot back, blushing. 

If he made a move I probably would’ve.

It was just past three in the morning when you had finally clocked out, the roar of the city long since dying down into the occasional car driving past; now it was little more than a muted hum as you headed inside and toward the elevator, tucking your headband into your purse.

At the end of the hallway, a tall figure leaned against the wall, his attention fixing on you as you grew closer. Though the jacket was missing and he was largely in shadow, you recognized him instantly, and heart thrummed in your chest as your pace quickened.

What is with me tonight? For all I know he’s a fucking creep—I mean, who waits for someone after work? He left like three hours ago, too, how long was he even out here? 

But deep down within you there was something that had wanted him to, and you knew it.

Calm down. Just talk to him.

When you got close, no words were spoken; he reached out his hand and almost as if you were moving independently of yourself, you took it, the sensation of it unusually cool—cold, even—as he brought you close. Then his lips were on yours, hands at your waist as you threw your arms over his neck, the soft fan of his breath mixing in with yours dizzying as you parted against him to invite him in.

So much for calm, why don’t we just make out with a stranger in the hallway outside our job instead? Nice. 

“I still didn’t get your name.”

“Dio.” 

The fuck kind of a name is Dio? 

“My car’s in the parking garage. Did you drive here?”

“No,” his hand trailed along your waist and settled at your hip. “But it’s all right.”

The elevator dinged and the doors slowly rolled open; he had pressed the button without you noticing. Guiding you in, he did not wait for the doors to close before pulling you close, picking up where he left of with little hesitation. From inside you caught a glimpse of your coworker locking up down the hall, his mouth hanging open as he watched you with wide, almost proud eyes. 

Then he gave you a quick thumbs up and turned his attention back to the lock, pretending he saw nothing as you closed your eyes and lost yourself.

When the doors shut with a faint hiss he slipped a hand under your shirt, his skin against yours sending a chill through you that had nothing to do with the cold. A soft whimper rose in your throat; he moved his hand up higher, his finger tracing the seam of your bra as he moved toward your back.

You broke away long enough to ask a single question, the words little more than a breathless gasp.

“How far is your place?” 

His voice was soft and low at your ear. “Further than yours, I would think.”

He can call an Uber, it’s fine. I’m not going to his place, that’s just asking to get murdered.

The feeling of fabric relaxing at your chest brought you to your senses momentarily, and you breathed in sharply. With one hand, he had undid the clasps of your bra.

“Couldn’t wait?” Teasingly you reprimanded him as his hand moved along your ribs, his fingernails against your skin sending gooseflesh along your arms.

He only laughed elevator doors opened, the carport sprawling out in front of you shrouded in darkness.

Wordlessly the two of you walked to where you were parked, one hand at your chest keeping your bra in place. A lifetime in the city had taught you to park as far away from any entrances as possible lest you find your catalytic converter missing, but this sort of planning presented its own problem: your car was in the far back of the lot, draped in shadow, few other cars around. Such was why you kept a taser and mace on you, but tonight it posed little issue other than having to walk far. At least no one would accost you with the behemoth of a man standing there next to you.

Once the two of you reached the car, he smirked.

“Consider me impatient all you would like, you would be right in doing so. But it seems my impatience is in my favor. I won’t have to wait very long.”

“What do you mean?” Your breath hitched; you knew full well what he meant.

Here? Really?

Fumbling for your keys, you unlocked the car and he opened the back door, pulling you in with him and setting you astride his lap. You closed the door in a hurry, infinitely grateful for the tinted windows as he pulled your shirt over your head and cast aside your bra; an appreciative eye trailed over your breasts as he threw them to the floor. Moaning outright as he ran his tongue over your nipple, he caught it between his teeth in a way that made you gasp; holding you firmly in place over him by your waist his mouth closed over it, his eyes met yours, silently spurning you into action. Rolling your hips against him, your breathing grew to shallow jumps and mewling whimpers as pleasure coiled in you. He inhaled sharply as he watched, and you became acutely aware of the stiffness of his cock rising against your jeans.

“Such abandon,” he murmured against your skin. “You’re ravishing in your immodesty.”

Letting go of your waist he took hold of your hair and snapped your head back, nipping and sucking at the dip where your neck met your shoulders until it felt sore. With a husky laugh he roughly shoved you aside, making short work of tearing off what remained of your clothing. Hunger burning deep crimson in their depths, his eyes raked over your body as if he was preparing to devour you whole.

Wait. Wasn’t he wearing gold contacts? Was I imagining that?

You had no time to dwell on it. Quickly your eyes darted to his hands as they deftly worked against the buttons at his waist, the fabric stretched over the outline of his cock catching your attention with no small amount of surprise. If was larger than you had anticipated, and the realization sent nervous pinpricks down your spine as it sprung free, thick and cut with a slight curve to it, the shape of it enough to promise pleasure and pain.

Good god, what is that, nine inches? Ten? I’m going to die.

Pulling you astride him, he brought you close, holding you up effortlessly with one arm around you so that you were straddled above his dick, his other hand holding it at the ready.

“I’ve told you my name,” he murmured into your ear, his nails digging into your skin. “I intend to hear you scream it.”

He brought you down onto him, burying himself to the hilt in you. Strangling down a cry of surprise as he tore through you, you were still for a moment, dazed by the pain blooming deep in you and the suddenness of it all. Then he began moving your hips, bringing you up before thrusting you down; his hands controlling your speed and rhythm, you lost sense of yourself entirely as you fell against him, letting him fuck you as if he hated you.

And yet it felt so good, how he had easily hit that one spot to make you weak, moving one hand to your clit as he bounced you on his cock. Rocking against the force of him as he showed you no mercy, you cried out his name. It was something between exultation and pleading, the way you cried out for him as he laughed, low and dark against your skin. Bringing his hand away and grasping painfully at your waist, he brought you down harder onto him; the moan in your throat shifted into a cry of pain as he watched you carefully.

“You’re quite lucky. I originally intended to kill you.”

What?

The words sobered you instantly, his touch like a knife at your flesh, and you froze in his arms. If he had noticed he gave no indication, continuing to fuck you as he went on.

“I would have drained you dry, but you looked far too enticing to simply consume. You saw those four I left with, did you not? One of them took your place.”

“I—what?”

Oh my God. I have to get out of here.

“Oh, but don’t worry. I have no intention of leaving you unscathed.”

Pain bloomed across your neck, searing and sharp as he sank his teeth into you; crying out, you tried to break free of his grip. Your struggle was in vain, however—fighting him only served to make it hurt more. A strange, suckling pull gathered at the wound and he groaned in satisfaction, bringing you down on him in a pace that grew heavy and erratic while the pull grew stronger, bringing his fingers to your clit and massaging it with deft force. In contrast to the ache at your throat, the pleasure he gave you grew, growing ever closer to taking over as you trembled in his grasp.

Let me guess. You’re a vampire?

The phrase struck horror deep into your heart and you inhaled sharply.

His teeth—they’re real. This isn’t a costume.

Words failed you as you crested against him, your orgasm tinged with an undercurrent of horror. So strong was it that you shook in his touch, an equal cry of elation and fear leaving you as you went weak in his grasp. He was not far behind, something you had noted by the way he moaned as that pulling drew black spots against your eyes. Then he twitched and stilled within you, his release heavy and warm and threatening to spill out.

“You should be more careful, (Y/N),” he whispered, his breath hot and metallic. “There are dangerous men out there.”

In a stupor, you allowed him to gently take your shoulders and lean you back, his state fixed on you intently. Blood stained his teeth and lips bright crimson in the dim light and horror built heavy within you.

You met his gaze squarely, hoping you looked braver than you felt.

“It was you. The cargo ship, the girl in Cairo, the coffin—it was you.”

He only smiled.

“Take a moment to collect yourself, get dressed, and get in the driver’s seat. Tomorrow you tender your resignation to the bar. I’ll need your nights.”

“Why?” You whispered, Dio caressing your cheek.

“It will be difficult, adjusting to this day and age, and you’re going to help me. You will be compensated of course, through wealth and whatever you desire.” 

Cupping his hand under your chin, he smiled. “My beautiful girl, I’ve been locked in that dreadful coffin for over a century. I hope you don’t mind how quickly we’ve finished. But rest assured, this is merely the beginning. When we arrive at your apartment, I’ll be sure to illustrate to you just how richly I can reward you for your troubles.”

“Do I have a choice?” Ringing hollow in the car, you looked away as you spoke.

Dio lowered his voice to a soft whisper. “Would you like to believe you do?”

In silence you dressed, awkwardly shifting your body in the seat as he watched with a smile of detached amusement. Then, shaking, you clambered into the driver’s seat and headed toward your apartment, Dio’s eyes trained on you in the rearview mirror.

What have I done?

Chapter Text

“Do you truly expect me to believe that you live in a mere closet?” 

Dio’s voice was incredulous as he walked into the apartment behind you and shut the door, taking in his surroundings with an air of disgust. 

Though you were loath to admit it, he was right. The studio was, if one were to be kind in their description, cramped. Barely scraping past 275 square feet, you were amazed you had found space for anything at all; standing at a solid six-foot-five, Dio seemed to take up the rest of the room within it as he cast a disdainful eye to the sofa, which folded out to a bed that remained unmade and almost touched the small storage shelf that acted as a makeshift stand for the television that rested on it. Beyond it lay the kitchenette, a term you had not heard until you had secured your lease and now found frankly laughable. Little more than a hallway with a refrigerator, electric stove, minimal countertops and a scant six storage cabinets, calling it a kitchenette was at best generous.

“Welcome to Los Angeles,” you said darkly, sweeping your hand across the limited space of your studio apartment as you turned on the light and threw your keys down on the end table next to the door. “Where the rent for this mere closet is two grand a month before utilities.”

Turning to Dio, you frowned. “Exactly how is that going to be paid, by the way? You weren’t clear when you demanded I quit my job tomorrow morning.”

A sharp scowl etched itself across his face and he cast another disparaging glance around the apartment, one hand on his hip.

“That’s absurd,” he scoffed. “You pay that much to live in squalor?”

“If you have any issues with the rent, take it up with my landlord. I’m sure the Joestar Realty Group will offer a sympathetic ear to your plight, Dio.”

“Joestar?” 

The name rolled off his tongue like perilous thunder beckoning in a storm, a look of pure hate consuming him as he stiffened.  Flinching beneath his narrowed gaze, unsure how his mood had so quickly shifted to one of undiluted anger, you shrugged.

“Uh…yeah,” you managed, eyeing him carefully as he glowered at you. “They’re based in New York.”

“Are they?” His voice was tight. “And who is the head of the Joestar clan?”

The Joestar clan? Did realtor groups not exist in the 1800s? Why does he think they’re a clan?

“You mean the CEO, right? I have no idea. I can Google it?”

His anger closed in on itself; now, he watched you suspiciously as you pulled your phone out of your pocket, pointing at it with a slender finger. “What is a Google? Is it that?”

“What? No, this is a cellphone. Google is a search engine.”

Dio blinked uncomprehendingly as you unlocked your Home Screen and opened your browser. Quickly typing “Joestar Realty Group owner” into the search bar, you hit send and scrolled through the results. The first was a profile in Forbes in honor of his hundredth birthday last year, and you let out a low whistle as you skimmed its contents. Dio’s eyebrows shot upward at the sound, and he craned his neck to view the screen.

“Here,” you faced the screen toward him briefly. No recent picture had been made available—though it did show his daughter holding a picture of him from his youth—and Dio’s stare fixed on it before you turned the screen back to read the article’s contents. “Joseph Joestar. Says he was born in England in 1920 to George and Elizabeth Joestar and raised by his grandmother Erina after his father died. Apparently he retired from the public after an incident in Italy in 1939 and has largely ran the company in anonymity. Did you know him or something?”

“I’ll deal with him later.” Absently Dio spoke, reaching for the phone in your hand. “Give me that.”

“Why?” Snatching it away from his reach, you furrowed your brow. “What do you want my phone for?”

His open palm facing upward, Dio made a beckoning gesture with his fingers. “I want to see what it’s capable of.”

“Get your own, then.”

“Anyone can simply own one of these cellphones? How would I go about that?”

An exasperated sigh left you; this was all too much. If you had to be honest with yourself, you were still reeling from the events in the car, the stinging ache at your neck a reminder.

“Oh my God,” you muttered, bringing a hand to your face. “Okay. I’ll take you to the store in the morning—”

“—No—” he sounded bored, looking to the side as he waved a dismissive hand at the suggestion.

Right. Sunlight. 

“—I’ll go to the store in the morning, and I’ll get you a phone. But—shit—with what money? I don’t have a job now, remember?”

Dio grinned, his smile holding within it a devilish edge that made you feel hollow as a scheming expression crawled over his features.

“Do the inordinately wealthy not dwell in Los Angeles? Take me to them. I’ll show you.”

A dozen different scenarios as to what he could have meant flooded through you, nausea roiling in your stomach as you thought of the news reports about the young woman in Cairo and the ship’s crew. Taking a step back and raising your hands in a gesture of quiet refusal, you spoke in a wary voice.

“You’re not going to kill them, are you? I’m not about to be an accessory to murder.”

He stepped close to you, moving a strand of hair from your eyes before tilting your chin upward as his expression softened into something close to enticing. On his lips rested a soft smile; in the harsh brightness of the light his beauty looked nothing short of frightening, his hair still mildly disheveled.

“I can be persuaded,” he murmured as he dipped low, his lips at your neck, “into mercy.”

“I’m not fucking you.” With both hands you shoved at his chest, scowling when he did not budge. Stepping back, you glared at him. “That was a one time thing, and already I’m regretting the consequences.”

Speaking of consequences, you said to yourself, the feeling of him between your legs ricocheting into your memory like a bullet. I’m going to need to stop by a CVS to prevent another one from happening.

“Was it really?” Amusement danced in his eyes. “Then I’ll offer you a deal. All you need do is ask me to spare them, and I will. This time.”

There was something in the way he had said it that gave you pause. His voice held a peculiar note of victory within it, as if your acquiescence would condemn you to some untold horror that only he knew. A dark thought seized you, and you looked up at Dio.

But not asking would potentially condemn someone to death, and at the end of the day, what would weigh less on my conscience? Being roped into whatever he’s planning, or being complicit in the loss of a life?

You swallowed down the lump in your throat.

“Please don’t kill them?”

Smirking, he let you go. “As you wish. But know that this is not a bid at altruism, and you will owe me for this later.”

With a sinking feeling, you shook your head.

I knew it.

“Now, come. You’ll be driving.”

He was already halfway out the door. In silence you grabbed your keys and followed him to the parking lot beneath the apartment, mulling over your options as you walked quickly enough to catch up to him without breaking into a sprint.

I can call the cops. They’ll arrest him, I can testify that he confessed to at least one murder. He didn’t really deny being the reason the crew went missing. 

With a shudder you recalled the stain of your blood on his mouth, and you dismissed the thought.

Who’s to say he won’t just kill the cops and then kill me? I really don’t have a choice here other than go along with it, do I? 

Unlocking the car, you rolled your eyes at him.

I am never having a one night stand again.

Taking Edgemont to Hollywood Boulevard, in little time you were heading down the 101, Dio watching the world blow past across the freeway from the window with little more than a passing interest. So late in the night, the freeway was nearly empty save for the errant car and highway patrol vehicle, and without the hindrance of Los Angeles traffic the exit leading to the 405 South crept up on you with little warning. A drive that normally would take forty-five minutes on a good day, the time had been halved and in no time, you were turning left onto Sepulveda and toward Bel-Air. As you drove toward Mulholland Drive, driving aimlessly through the winding roads and dense foliage, he looked over to you.

“You’ve taken to your role with considerable dignity.”

You did not look at him as you spoke, keeping your voice level while you stared straight ahead.

“Well I’d rather not die, so I didn’t have much else of a choice other than adapting.”

Chuckling, Dio settled back into the seat. “A fair rationalization to make. Turn here.”

He pointed to the street sign ahead, his eyes trained on a hulking structure swathed in night at the top of the hill. Turning left and taking the sprawling road uphill, you found yourself at a gate and put the car into park.

Dio left the car, watching you silently for a moment as he sized you up. With a resolute nod, he closed the distance between the two of you, a small smile playing on his lips as he took hold of your shoulders, his eyes trailing over the remains of your makeup that you were sure had smudged across your nose and cheek.

His voice was soft; like a caress, the words landed on you. “Be a good little pet and wait for me here, won’t you? I won’t be long.”

Narrowing your eyes, you stared up at him. “What are you going to do?”

Wordlessly, he scanned the surroundings as he let you go, his features cold and calculating, before stepping onto the hood of the car. Lithe as a cat, he leapt up and over the brick wall leading to the gate, landing on his feet before offering you a small smirk and disappearing into the darkness. 

The gravity of the situation began to settle in as he vanished from view and a rush of air left you in one forceful exhale. Reaching out a hand to grasp the hood of the car and steady yourself, you took a deep breath; then another, gulping down air as if you had been held underwater.

This is all real. This is really happening. I’m stuck in Bel Air at five in the morning with a fucking vampire that might or might not be lying about killing whoever lives here. Holy shit.

“What the fuck,” nervously you laughed to yourself, pushing yourself off the car and pacing across the cement. “Did I get myself into?”

Roughly half an hour had passed, that half hour bleeding into what felt like an agonizing eternity as your anxiety built from a steady hum to a crescendo, before the gates swung open. Crackling to life beside the gate, Dio’s voice shot through an intercom.

“I’ll be waiting by the door. You’ll need to drive up.”

Then the intercom shut off, and you climbed into the car. Halfway up the remainder of the road, the building’s lights came on, and you let out a loud gasp as the home came into view.

Made of jutting angular shapes, the mansion was nothing short of a modern architectural triumph that dominated most of the promontory upon which it sat. Floor to ceiling windows served as the majority of the walls, affording a glimpse into the luxury inside; a large light fixture made of circular lamps hanging low from the ceiling shone bright from the foyer, the interior itself from what you could see styled in pale wood accented with white ceilings and walls. In the open doorway, you could make out Dio’s silhouette leaning against the frame, one leg crossed over the other, his arms folded across his chest.

Parking right outside the garage beside a sleek sports car, you got out, and Dio stepped away from the doorway and met you midway up the walk leading to the entrance, draping one arm around your shoulder and ushering you in. 

In its luxury, the interior was nothing short of astounding; this, you thought to yourself, has to be the nicest house I’ve ever set foot in. Decked out in mahogany flat panels to accent the warm white of the walls and furniture, it was both cozy and imposing all at once. A fire roared in the fireplace toward the far end of where you stood, the television mounted on the wall above it casting a blue light over the space that warred with the deep red-orange glow of the flames. To its right lay the kitchen, a sprawling mass of white marble countertops and silver appliances, and behind it all was a backyard ensconced in darkness save for the negligible light that poured from the windows. Next to a sleek white couch situated between the television area and the kitchen, a bowl of popcorn lay on its side on the floor, its contents spilling onto the white rug set beneath the couch and coffee table beside a deep red stain that poured from a knocked over wine glass. 

Standing on the tips of your toes as you craned your neck, you looked for signs of life and found none. Worry pounding your heart against your chest like a panicked fist, you turned to him.

“Dio,” nervously, you spoke. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” he answered lightly. “You’ll understand in a moment.”

Bringing you further into the house and toward the fireplace, you found what appeared to be a husband and wife, their expressions matched in utter bliss as they looked up at Dio’s towering frame. At the base of both of their hairlines, something pinkish-grey and made of what looked like skin and veins wriggled into their flesh, and you suppressed a shudder as Dio let you go.

Peering down into the man’s face, one hand at his hip as he lay the other on the man’s shoulder, he spoke quietly. 

“Do you wish to serve your Lord DIO?”

In spite of the situation, you let out a snort of disbelief.

Lord DIO? The fucking ego on this guy.

Dio shot you a silent glare, and you could clearly read the admonishment held within it: watch it.

“Yes,” the man cried hurriedly. “I do! Tell me how, Lord DIO!”

Dio turned back to the man, his voice nothing short of triumphant.

“Give this home to me.”

Mouth hanging open, your eyes moved quickly from Dio, to the couple, to your surroundings.

“You’re joking,” you whispered, your voice incredulous. “How would that even be legal?”

Speaking over his shoulder, he addressed you directly. “Worry not about the legalities of this exchange, I am more than capable of handling it. Though I would have preferred killing them, it’s much less paperwork.”

“It’s yours, Lord DIO!” The woman’s voice was shrill with delight. “We would love to give it to you! Anything to serve you!”

Then he returned his attention to the man, his tone devious.

“In exchange, the two of you will take over this beautiful young woman’s apartment. Does that sound fair?”

He looked at you then, savoring the way your eyes widened as you shook your head. Words failed you; in a mix of confusion and fear you mulled over what he had said.

Why would they need my apartment? Am I supposed to just live with them now? What the hell is he talking about?

An jubilant cry followed by the sound of hands clapping together in joy snapped you out of your reverie, and you looked to its source. The woman beamed, her head bobbing up and down in enthusiastic agreement, her eyes trained on Dio. Beside her the man nodded emphatically, a wide grin on his face, his features near-crazed.

“Of course, Lord DIO! Anything you want!”

“Anything?” Dio raised a confident eyebrow. “How much do you possess in assets and equity?”

“Whatever we have, we will gladly let you take it,” the man’s wife chimed happily, grabbing Dio’s arm. “We only want to serve you!”

“And your money,” Dio added, knocking away the woman’s hands with little effort as he glanced over at you. “I’ll have you transfer the majority of it over to my companion here, allotting you whatever you need to sustain yourselves.”

His voice low, he leaned forward. “This transaction is not without its reward. You are paying her for the opportunity to walk away with your lives, as it is through her request I show you mercy that you breathe.”

Letting go of the man, brutal satisfaction settled over him as he clapped his hand to his back, shoving him toward you with great force.

“Thank her.”

The two spoke in unison, eyes fixed on you as the man regained his footing. “Thank you!” 

Dio laughed derisively. “Oh, that won’t do.”

In one languid sweep, he lifted his leg and kicked the man’s back, the force of it knocking him to his knees. Taking hold of his wife next, he tossed her to the floor.

With an imperious glare, he stared down at them before his gaze shifted to you. “Kiss her feet.”

Eagerly they bent low and crawled toward you in a hurried pace. With a frown of disgust you stepped back; frantically, their lips met the carpet, and you eyed Dio with disdain.

“Jesus, Dio. What the fuck? You’re already getting what you want from them, why humiliate them too?”

Raising an eyebrow, his eyes did not once leave you as he spoke. “Am I to understand you’re displeased?”

High and strained, the words left your lips in a shout. “Of course I’m displeased! Nothing about this is pleasing to me! I don’t want their money, I don’t want them kissing my feet! I just want to go home and forget this all happened!”

Smirking, he cocked his head toward the couple. “The wealthy reap the benefits of their status off the backs of the labor of men and women such as you, confined to poverty when their luxury should rightfully be yours. Is it not fitting to have them kiss your feet in gratitude?”

“Dio,” in vain you tried to help them to their feet as you watched him, backing away quickly once they began scuttling toward your shoes. “They’re still innocent people! What did you even do to them?”

“It matters not.” With a dismissive wave, he turned his gaze to the couple. “You two. Stand.”

Hastily drawing themselves up to their feet, they turned to Dio eagerly, eyes glossed over as they waited expectantly for him to speak. 

“It would seem my companion is not one for such displays,” he drawled with a smirk. “I, however, am. Bow and kiss my feet.”

Again they fell to the floor, grasping Dio’s ankles and planting a smattering of fervent kisses over the curved tip of his boots, Dio watching you all the while. Discomfited by the display, you looked off to the side, crossing one arm over your stomach with a frown.

“That’s enough,” he said after a moment, kicking back his foot with a derisive glare toward the two. “Take me to whatever room serves as a study. We’ll settle the details there.”

Then he walked over to you, leaving little distance between your bodies and trailing a hand over your shoulder.

“Return to your hovel and bring back whatever items you hold significant,” he said quietly. “Leave the furniture. They’ll need it. Do you recall that favor I mentioned you would owe me for sparing them?”

“Yes.” Glancing over to them as they waited silently for Dio, you shifted your weight on the balls of your feet, your voice wary.

“It’s time I collect what I am owed for my magnanimity.”

Stepping back, he stretched his arms out in a gesture of welcome. “I’ve told you that you’re to help me adjust to the world, and how would you to do so without being by my side?”

His lips curved into a smile, hard and cold as the curve of a scythe as his eyes trailed over your face, drinking in the understanding and terror that washed over you in a merciless wave.

“Welcome home.”

Chapter Text

Crossing his arms, he stared at the trembling man and woman set across from him on their knees as they raised their hands in the air, the universal sign of surrender.

“We’ll give you anything you want,” the woman cried.

“Please, just don’t kill us!”

Sneering, he stepped over the bowl of popcorn that had jolted from the man’s lap as he bolted upright; he had noticed Dio first, catching his reflection in the dark window as he had slipped through the front door. Glass crunched underfoot as he stepped onto one of the two wine glasses that had been knocked from the coffee table and approached the man. Planting a swift kick to his spine, the man to the floor and Dio crouched low, rolling him onto his back before laying the pads of his fingers over the throbbing pulse of his carotid. Beside him the woman screamed and he forcefully struck her cheek, her scream dying off on her tongue in subdued shock. As she quieted into sniffling sobs, he returned his attention to the man.

“And why shouldn’t I?” he whispered softly. “Your death would be one from which I would benefit greatly.”

Unbidden, his earlier exchange sprang to mind.

“Please don’t kill them?”

As you wish.

“Shit,” he cursed under his breath with a scowl before regaining his composure.

That stupid goddamn girl. If I kill them, there’s no telling that she won’t act out of some misaligned sense of justice. I can’t risk that.

Smoothing his features into a smile, he patted the man’s shoulder reassuringly. “It would seem you’re quite lucky. I’ve got a promise to uphold, one that spares you of the fate I’d held in store. But don’t worry. That is not without its own price you’ll have to pay.”

Bending his body to his will in order to bring another under his thrall was mere child’s play, a skill he had developed long before the world around him had shifted from smoke and shadow to smog and steel. With ease, he set into them both, his hair like prehensile tentacles as they swiftly met their mark and drove two flesh buds through their skulls. Almost instantly their expressions slackened into lazy smiles and glossy eyes; a permanent state of euphoria and blind allegiance.

“It’s better than nothing, I suppose,” he said darkly as he rose to his feet. “You two. Stay.”

Brushing off his knees, he crossed the threshold of the living room and made his way to a small silver box mounted by the entryway door, a dotted circular grid his sole indicator that it was a speaker of some kind.

“One of you two. What is this?”

“An intercom,” they replied in unison.

“Intercom? Is there one at the front gate? I’m only asking you.” Turning just enough to keep them in his line of sight, he pointed to the man. “Your wife can stay quiet.”

“Yes,” the man answered. “There’s one in every room in the house, the guest house, and the adjoining gym and spa.”

Focusing his attention back to the intercom, he noticed a long line of small black buttons beneath the speaker.

“Which one of these connects to the gate?”

“First from the left,” the man answered, and Dio pressed it.

“I’ll be waiting by the door. You’ll need to drive up.”

Once, he had been a king on the precipice of conquering the world that lay before him; an impenetrable kingdom of shadow and secrecy. Within twenty-four hours alone he had turned the people of Windknight’s Lot into a swathe of zombies ready to execute his will until their last undying breath, and nothing save for Jonathan and his wayward crew stood in his way as he sought what lay beyond the hamlet’s border. It all had been nearly his, his to savor as he drained it at the pulse, right before it slipped through his fingers like sand in an hourglass. 

Now it lay to waste, replaced by those severe towers of architectural ingenuity as they clawed their way to the stratosphere, glittering and cold in the city night. At first the sheer noise of it all was a disorienting force that proved overwhelming, hulking metal charging past on darkly paved roads at improbable speeds. Automobiles, he had learned they were called; confusingly, everyone referred to them as cars. Then those strange rectangular devices everyone seemed to possess—cellphones—that appeared permanently glued to their hands, their focus absorbed on the words typed with their thumbs as they moved through the crowds with little care.

He had fell under the impression that this world would be easy to bring to its knees, with how stupid humans seemed to have grown as he lay imprisoned in the Atlantic. At first he fed with wanton abandon to regain his strength. The crew on that accursed ship made of hulking metal and bloated wood, those vagrants in Tenerife and Algiers, no one had batted an eye—or so he had thought. Then, in Cairo, that city that seemed to beckon to him with its rich history and deep connection to the dead, he had drained that woman in the mansion he sought to call home; they had found her body in record time and everyone seemed to have known about her death, though he could not fathom how or why until he had held the cellphone up to the woman’s face and unlocked it to see that she had sent what looked like a moving map to a friend.

And then there were the headlines.

News stories blindly connecting the woman’s death to those he had fed on, the story of the abandoned ship drifting into Tenerife. Using a phone he had stolen from a vagrant he had drained, he scanned through the headlines quickly; everything from press in Egypt to the New York Times and The Guardian had written stories about it. Soon enough, whispers of the mysterious blonde traveler that had been her companion for the night soon began to seep through the underbelly of the city like rain through soil, taking root as it spread to the ears of the Cairo Police Department. 

It was then that he realized the shadows held no refuge for him anymore. The world had eyes everywhere, and those phones connected them all as they looked to his misdeeds.

He had been too reckless. He had to leave Cairo. 

Los Angeles was the first city he could secure safe passage to and he did so as quickly as he could, disguising himself in a cheap coffin as the body of a deceased man being flown to the city after passing away in Cairo from some respiratory disease that necessitated its sequestering from the rest of the plane. It was not his proudest moment, scrunched beside the man’s bloated and decaying corpse, but it was not the worst situation he had found himself in throughout his near-century and a half of life; drifting to sleep to tune out the smell of rot and death, he arrived in Los Angeles as night cloaked the city, and stole away from the plane before he could be discovered.

From the airport in El Segundo he had found an automobile, one marked with a black sticker on the windshield emblazoned with silver letters spelling out the German word for “over,” its driver checking his phone every thirty seconds. Walking up to the car and opening the back door, he slid in and the driver turned to him.

“For Anthony?”

“Yes,” Dio lied, and the two sped off into the night. 

The man had dropped him off outside a hotel in a particularly impoverished area of Los Angeles, refuse and tents lining the sidewalk as people coated in filth meandered through the streets, dancing around oncoming traffic as if it merely did not exist. Grim and desolate, it reminded Dio of London, and he frowned as he stepped into the hotel.

Getting a room proved far easier than he had hoped. So late in the evening the lobby lay all but abandoned, affording him the opportunity to charm the man behind the counter long enough to convince him to take a break and meet Dio in an abandoned room—there, he had put him under a flesh bud and had him both check him into a penthouse suite and give him his cell phone. Holed up in that room, he had spent the majority of the summer and early fall catching up on everything that had occurred since he had sank to those watery depths, leaving only to feed and to scope out the city in order to gain his bearings. Traveling everywhere from Bel Air, Brentwood, Beverly Hills, Pacific Palisades and Westwood to East LA, Monterey Park, Boyle Heights and West Adams, he sought out those fit to serve under him and brought them under his thrall, creating a web for himself linking him both to the underworld and the gilded elite. 

All too easily he had familiarized himself with the world around him, eager to take from it what was rightfully his—power, wealth, adoration, fear; all of it would be within his grasp once more, and he would rule over this shimmering concrete landscape with ease in due time. Already he had formed a plan: climb his way through the ranks of the wealthy the way he had climbed to status through the Joestars, and from there, have the world at his feet.

And then there was her, that pretty little harlot that had so effortlessly caught his eye. 

Dio had always been partial to beautiful creatures, and she held no exception. He had first noticed her a little over a month ago, the bar in which she had worked not too far from his own hotel becoming something of a hunting ground for him when he had tired of culling the transient population from the underbelly of Skid Row. Wearily she had engaged in conversation with a man that had pestered her endlessly for her phone number, bombarding her with questions about the cargo ship and the murder in Cairo as she fielded them with beleaguered ease while evasively dodging his attempts at flirtatious conversation.

Captivated by the way she had languidly moved across the bar as if it were a dance she had rehearsed for all her life, the sway of her hips as she walked a movement he took in with an appreciative eye, he watched her silently, immersed in shadow beside a man whose name he did not care to remember as he draped an arm over Dio’s shoulder and whispered drunken propositions in his ear. Though the man had managed to arouse in Dio a wanting strong enough to lure him back to his hotel, she had caught his interest far more strongly; as he drained the man dry, his naked body broken and feeble beneath him, he found himself wondering just how entrancing she would look as the light left her eyes.

Not so often as to draw attention to himself, he returned to the bar more frequently after that to pick out another unfortunate soul to drag back to his bed, watching her all the while. As the nights would progress he found himself intrigued, that startling vapidity of the souls he had so often encountered curiously absent in her. Overhearing her conversations there was a note of intelligence Dio found intriguing, one lost on those she would be engaging. But there was something in her, a subdued disdain for her situation, that sardonic smile she wore like a seamless mask holding within it a contempt that he knew all too well; one that was more telling than she knew. She was exhausted, and buckling under the weight of that exhaustion as it grew insurmountable on her shoulders.

Beautiful or not, she would be an easy kill, he reasoned, she was so tired of the life she had lived. He was so sure of it that when he had slipped into the bar earlier in the evening, he almost felt disappointed. He had grown to enjoy his little game, watching her silently from the crowd, eager to figure her out before he pulled her under and away from this world forever.

Then he had spoken to her, the desire emanating from her gaze as irresistible to him as freshly spilled blood, and found himself instead sprawled beneath her in the back seat of her car. Even then, as he undressed her and brought her to his lap, sparing her was not his intent—but the heat of her body wrapped around him, his name on her lips like birdsong, it had clouded his judgement long enough to conceive the idea that keeping her around as his eyes and ears would be a good thing, something he could benefit from greatly. Her quiet acquiescence to her fate had only served to further that notion, and by the time they had arrived at her apartment he had made up his mind to appear ill-adjusted enough to the world to keep her compelled into service. 

And now here he was, regretting that lapse of judgment immensely as he reached the front door in one long, quick, stride, barking over his shoulder at the couple to turn on all the lights while watching her car make its way up the winding path to the door. Opening it, he leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms over his chest and breathing in the chill of the autumn air to center himself; though he no longer needed to do so, there was something calming in the action, and he needed to be calm.

I’m not quite ready to kill you yet, so I’ll forgive your little indulgence in morality by making me spare these two. It matters little in the long run, anyway. Once their home and their money belongs to me, I’ll simply activate their flesh buds and kill them in that godforsaken hovel you once called home. By then, I’m sure you’ll have proved yourself useful to me somehow.

“Oh, little pet,” he murmured to himself as the car drew nearer. “I do hope you prove useful. It would be a shame to let this little game of mine end so soon.”

Summoning up a genial smile as the car rolled to a stop, gravel crunching beneath its wheels, he waited for her to get out of the car. 

Chapter Text

It was a bittersweet goodbye, locking up your apartment for the last time. On the one hand you were finally out of that claustrophobic little room that had been barely passable as a dwelling even without the kitchenette; on the other, it was yours. A place in your name, furniture you had bought with your own credit card and paychecks, a place you had managed to make into a home.

And now all of it was gone.

You did not bring much aside from clothing, jewelry, and the possessions you had held most dear. They lay stacked atop one another in haphazardly packed trash bags, jostling around in the back seat and trunk as your apartment complex disappeared in the rearview mirror. Stopping at a CVS that you knew had a twenty-four hour pharmacy and avoiding eye contact with the pharmacist while you quietly asked for emergency contraceptives, you took your time in making your way back to Bel Air, downing the first pill with a bottle of water and bleary eyes. Exhaustion had caught up to you with little mercy, and it was by no small miracle that you had made it back to the mansion.

By the time you had returned the sky had lightened to a deep shade of blue, the husband and wife waiting patiently at the front door, and Dio was nowhere to be found.

Handing the keys off to them in silence, you did not spare a glance toward them as they hastily clambered into the sports car parked in front of the garage and drove off, their smiles ones of mad glee. As their car disappeared down the road and into the rising dawn, you wondered if they knew where to go; you had not told them where you lived, and you were not sure Dio himself had in your absence. It would be frankly impressive if he had managed to remember the route that had led from the apartment to the mansion, but it was Dio—who knew what he was capable of.

There was nothing in you that felt compelled to look for him. Instead you fished out a pair of clean underwear and pajamas from one of the bags, your toothbrush and toothpaste from another, and clambered up the stairs. Peeking into the rooms, you stopped as you came across a dark room with a bed. Floor-to-ceiling blackout curtains were drawn over the massive windows dominating the westward-facing wall, whatever light rising beyond them completely drowned out by the heavyweight fabric. Tossing your change of clothing onto the bed and taking your toothbrush and toothpaste with you, you slowly made your way down the hall you found the first bathroom with a shower inside. In complete darkness stripped bare and showered, the hot water falling from a faucet mounted directly overhead a sobering reminder of the dull ache at your neck. The night’s events replayed in your mind as you became acutely aware of how everything seemed to ache—your thighs and what rested between them, your shoulders, your hips—and you found yourself staring off into the fogged glass of the shower, a somber mood settling over you like steam. It felt wrong, showering here as if the world around you had not been turned on its side.

But it was late, and you were too tired to care. 

With a brittle sigh, you shut off the water and dried off with the first clean towel you found folded in the bathroom, brushing your teeth quickly before wrapping the towel around your body and walking back to the room. Changing quickly, you crawled into the bed and threw the covers over you. 

Then you turned to find a sleeping Dio beside you, the sight of him enough to make you nearly jump out of your skin.

“God fucking damn it,” you muttered under your breath.

He was eerily still, as if he had been laid in state on the mattress. Around him his hair fell in flaxen-gold waves, fanning out against the pillow like a halo. Long eyelashes rested against his cheeks, his lips just barely slack with sleep; he looked peaceful, lying there on his back, his hands folded over the duvet and resting on his stomach.

Not a care in the world for you, is there? Just sleeping like a baby as if this is a regular Monday night for you.

An uncomfortable mixture of disgust and intrigue kept you transfixed and you watched him, propping yourself up on one elbow in the bed.

He looks kind of handsome—wait what am I saying? Get it together, the guy’s a monster.

One deep gold eye fluttered open, fixing onto you with an eerie intensity. Once he had realized it was you, he opened his eyes fully and a haughty grin stretched taut over his lips.

“Ah.” Thick with sleep, his voice was a low murmur. “You’ve returned.”

Mirroring you, he propped himself up, the duvet settling near his waist as he settled; his torso was bare, his hair in tousled waves falling against broad alabaster shoulders and to his chest. You drew in air through your teeth as your gaze swept over the scar on his throat and the corded musculature of his arm as it shot toward you, his hand coming to settle on your hip.

“Tell me,” whispering softly, he rolled his thumb over the curve of your hip. “What do you think of the home I’ve made for us?”

Guilt stole through you and you thought of the married couple, the stain of wine and spilled popcorn on the white carpet. 

“What about them?”

“Think nothing of them, they are of no concern to you now. The contracts are drawn and signed.”

“What if they sue you?”

“They cannot,” Dio said lightly. “But you needn’t concern yourself with that now. You haven’t answered my question.”

“It’s…nice,” you managed awkwardly. “Really nice.”

“And yet still you feel guilty. It’s written quite plainly on your face. Why?”

“You don’t?”

“Why should I?” He cocked an eyebrow as he looked down at you in genuine curiosity. 

“Need me to run through the list of crimes you’ve committed in the past twenty-four hours, or since August?”

A small laugh shook his shoulders. “My litany of sins extend far beyond August. But your morality is misguided. Do humans not kill to eat? Consider, for example, the calf. Fattened up by farmers and slaughtered before they can ever see a field, braised and served on a platter to consume, does the one who dines on their flesh feel guilt? Why am I any different?”

“You enjoy it,” you said quietly, remembering the feel of his teeth.

“I do,” he agreed, moving his hand from your hip and stroking your cheek before letting it softly land back where it had once lay. “The way anyone would enjoy a meal. As for the other matters, I feel no guilt. Neither should you. In fact, you should feel quite proud, you saved two people.”

His words only served to make you feel hollow, and you fell back to the pillow. Sure, you had saved them, but the cost of their lives being spared was laying in this bed, Dio’s hand on your hip, and your entire life upended. 

“All of this,” sighing, you looked up at the ceiling. “Because I wanted to sleep with you. I’m a fucking idiot.”

Dio shifted beside you, looming over you in the darkness with a lecherous grin. Drawing close, his lips inches from yours, a lump formed in your throat. “But you enjoyed it, did you not?”

Then his lips were on yours, his hand trailing upward and to your breast as he kissed you; for a moment you lost yourself in it, parting your lips and giving him entry, a soft gasp in your throat as his hand closed over your breast and squeezed. 

But it was only for a moment, and you shoved at Dio as you gained your bearings. He allowed it, though his hand still rested against your breast.

“One time thing,” you muttered; creeping up on you like a silent assassin, sleep threatened to take you. “Not doing it again. I just want to go to bed. Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll wake up and this will all have just been some nightmare.”

A low, throaty chuckle rumbled from Dio’s chest.

“Sleep,” he whispered, kissing your forehead. “You have work to do in the morning.”

Wearily you sighed and closed your eyes, and in no time you were asleep.

When you awoke, you awoke in a state of disorientation. For one infinitesimally small moment the night’s events were forgotten, and you were sure you were back at home until your body registered the plush comfort of the mattress. Your eyes swept to the thin stream of daylight peeled beneath the curtains, the room swathed in shadow, before resting on Dio’s stilled frame beside you, peacefully asleep.

“Fuck,” you whispered, scowling. “I wasn’t dreaming.” 

Leaping from the bed as if it had been set ablaze, your eyes still clouded heavily with sleep, you picked up your phone from the bedside table. It was half past nine in the morning, and you frowned in irritation as you checked the wall of notifications. Four hours of sleep. Great. A text from your best friend, your coworker, and your boss were at the forefront, and you read them all.

What are you doing today? I’m in Los Feliz.

Hey, can you cover my shift tonight?

Morning. We had a call out. Can you come in?

Dealing with your boss first, you sent out a short reply. 

Hey - I know it’s short notice and I’m sorry, but I quit. Personal life stuff. I hope you understand.

Almost immediately you got a text back, a single thumbs up emoji popping into view before the blinking ellipsis let you know another response was coming. 

I get it. Job’s still yours if you want to come back. Hope everything is okay. Want me to send your last check to you or do you want to come pick it up?

Groaning, you responded with a quick “I’ll come pick it up. I changed my address. Thanks,” and set the phone back down, shooting a seething glare at Dio.

“Hope you’re happy.”

Leaving the room, you made way to your car and grabbed a change of clothes; unpacking was something that did not rank highly on your list of priorities. First was getting him a phone and getting him off your back for a little while, second was to take a deep breath and figure out what the hell you were supposed to do next. Walking to the house and changing quickly, you grabbed your purse as you went back to the car and sped off toward the nearest store, typing the name of your carrier into the Waze search bar as you drove. 

Getting a phone without Dio present proved difficult, but not impossible. A form of identification was needed to open a line for him; it was only after you added the second line for yourself and chalked it up to functioning as a business line that it was successfully put to your plan. Picking out a device at random and settling on an iPhone, it took roughly an hour to work out the details and set up the payment plan on the phone. Wincing at the price, you paid and headed back to the mansion, the phone tucked safely in its box stored in a tote bag along with the receipt and a copy of the contract.

Once you had got back, you allowed yourself a moment to roam and take in your surroundings, tote bag and purse in hand. 

The first floor was an open floor plan that led into the backyard, trimmed with lush grass and verdant greenery with accents of stone. In total there were nine bedrooms and fourteen bathrooms, each decorated in the same style as the first floor. King sized mattresses in sleek mahogany frames draped in white dominated each space, the furnishings all deep chestnut wood accenting the pale wooden floors. Several of the bathrooms adjoined the rooms as an en suite with standalone soaking tubs and separate showers encased in glass and slate with ceiling mounted rain shower heads, the floors heated marble; all of them boasted large windows that afforded panoramic views of the Los Angeles landscape below, the shores of the Pacific in the far distance. Wandering through it and taking everything in, it felt less like a home and more like a museum; touching anything felt like a sin.

Overwhelmed, you went out to the backyard and took a deep breath.

Unmatched in its luxury, you were greeted first by the sight of an expansive infinity pool and a recessed outdoor fire pit to its side, a guest house off to the northeast side of the grounds. Sleek white chairs lined the secluded cabana areas shaded by palm trees, an outdoor kitchen nestled beside one of them near the patio area. A low whistle left you, and you sat down in one of the chairs, fishing a pair of sunglasses out of your purse to shield your eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun bouncing off the water.

“Jesus,” you said weakly, burying your head in your hands. “How do people live like this? How am I supposed to live like this?”

Remembering the phone, you took it from its box and added your number to his contacts, a last ditch effort to distract yourself from the enormity of everything that had occurred over the past twenty-four hours.

Then an idea struck you, one that made a lopsided grin stretch wide over your face.

He said he needs to adjust to the modern world, right? Social media should distract him for a while and I’ll figure out how to get myself out of this in the meantime. 

Downloading TikTok, Instagram, and Twitter onto his phone, you took your time creating accounts for him. Once you had finished, you set it aside and snuck into the bedroom where he slept—the primary suite, you realized as you took in the two grand closets that dwarfed your studio in size and the en suite bath—placing it beside him on the night stand before quietly slipping out and to your car. Slowly you moved what you had brought with you into the guest house, putting as much distance between you and Dio as possible.

It matched the rest of the estate but in far smaller scale, something you could at least wrap your head around as you finished unpacking and settled onto the bed. Built with its own kitchen and laundry area, it was a cozier stab at understated opulence, and you found yourself drifting off back to sleep, awaking what felt like moments later to a cold hand at your shoulder gently rousing you into consciousness.

Goddamnit. I can’t even sleep.

Snapping at him, you did not open your eyes. “What?” 

“The guest house?” There was a note of amusement in his voice. “Was my bed not comfortable enough?”

“Not if it means sleeping next to you, no.”

“Such anger, little pet. It becomes you.”

Your eyes flew open and you sat up, fixing Dio with a glare. Dressed only in pants, he leaned back in the shadows, a smirk on his face.

“I’ve found the cellphone you’ve left for me. And your resignation?”

“Consider it tendered,” you muttered. 

“Good. I’ll need your routing and account numbers for whatever financial institution you utilize.”

“Why?”

Oh right, the transfer.

“I’ll only be transferring you a small amount. The previous owners of our beautiful new home have offshore accounts that will be transferred to me soon. They hold the majority of their assets.”

“How?” Raising an eyebrow, you studied Dio. “You don’t have a license or a social security number. How the hell would they transfer it?”

“Money,” Dio said airily, “can buy anything. They’re seeing to that little issue for me. It would appear you’re not the only one who will be of use to me.”

Blinking, your brow knotted together in confusion. “Why kick them out then? You could have just kept them here and let me live in my apartment.”

“Useful or not, I’d rather not have to subject myself to their presence. Rather unsightly little creatures, if I’m being honest. Repulsive to look at.”

Slinking onto the mattress beside you, he let his eyes slowly trail over your figure. “You’re far more pleasing to the eye, and your sudden contempt for me makes you all the more intriguing. I’m not one to back down from a challenge, and you’re posing to be an enticing one. So you’re here, with me, until I finally break you down.”

His expression was smug, his eyes shining deep pomegranate in the darkness as he reclined languidly onto the bed. Exuding a confidence that made you want to either puke or punch him, Dio smirked.

“And I will break you down.”

He really is full of himself, isn’t he?

“And what happens,” you asked with a withering glare. “If you do?”

His hand trailed along your thigh, and you moved out of his reach as he laughed. “That remains to be seen,” barely above a whisper, the words were a purr. “Doesn’t it?”

Squinting in annoyance, you crossed your arms. Not willing to indulge his ego further, you changed the subject.

“So what am I, exactly? Your assistant?”

“I suppose,” he dropped to the mattress completely, laying on his back. “If you so desire an official title, you can feel free to call yourself as such.”

An idea struck you, an emboldened bid at maintaining some sort of independence and distance from him. If settling into a life with Dio meant becoming something of an assistant, at least having some sort of concrete agreement as to what your role consisted of would draw a clear boundary. He seemed to be well-versed enough in contracts, if your earlier conversation served as any indication; striking up one with you did not seem like too much to ask.

Plus, he could stand to be knocked down a peg or two.

“Then I have some terms.” Turning to Dio, you rolled your eyes at the grin that crawled over his lips like a venomous spider.

“Do you really? Name your terms, little pet. Perhaps I’ll honor them.”

First things first, put a stop to that before it becomes a thing.

“One, enough with the nicknames. I have a name, use it. Two, I’m allowed some sort of freedom in my off hours—and I will have off hours. I don’t work during the day, and I have weekends off. Use your weird brainwashed minions you stole the house from. Three, dental, vision and medical insurance are going to be covered, fully, by you. Four, stop feeling me up. Just because we slept together that doesn’t mean you can just do whatever you want.”

He watched you quietly as you drew in a breath, his gaze impassive. At their mention, the memory of the couple trying to kiss your shoes swam into the front of your conscience; then the headlines, and the wound on your neck. Covering it with your hand as if it would send away the memory, you sighed.

“Lastly, no more illegal shit. No more killing, no more robbing rich people, nothing. Is that clear?”

He chuckled, shifting the corners of his mouth upward in an amused grin as his gaze bore into you, one dark brow cocked while he tilted his head to the side.

“Quite clear. Anything else?”

There was one last thing, something you had mulled over while heading to the car before he had seized the estate in Bel Air. One that you were sure could provide some leverage, some form of security over him, something that was enough to keep him in line. 

The threat of turning Dio in.

In truth, you were not quite sure it would work if you tried, but your short time with Dio left you firmly under the assumption that he was calculating enough to avoid trouble if it so presented itself. Not to mention, if he had managed to be imprisoned by someone until daybreak, there was a chance he would not survive the experience at all. It seemed a risk he would not want to take, one he would fear should it be a possibility.

It’s gotta be enough to scare him, right? Even just a little?

With a smile you hoped conveyed more confidence than you felt, you nodded.

“Yeah. Break the terms, and I’m turning you in personally. Vampire or not, I’m not afraid of you.”

“Oh?” He sat up, and instantly you knew you had said the wrong thing. The playful smile that had rested on his lips had vanished, replaced with a hard line as the muscle in his jaw clenched. 

You took in a sharp breath, and danger flashed in his eyes.

“Tell me,” his voice was delicate, an icy edge to it that carried within it a wordless threat, one you could not fully discern nor understand. “What do you think would happen if you ‘turned me in,’ little pet?”

His hand grasped your arm, tightening down on the flesh hard enough to make you gasp. Wriggling in his grip, he clamped down harder as he sat up and forced you onto your back as you winced.

“Do you think they would live long enough to imprison me? A laughable notion at best. Most importantly, do you think you would live long enough to make that phone call?”

No trace of kindness or levity dwelled in his words, each hard as a knife’s edge pressed into your skin. Straddling you he took hold of your other arm, pinning both above your head by your wrists as a throbbing pain moved upward from his grasp in tremors. Alarm tore through you like wildfire, and all you could manage was a helpless whimper when you met his eyes.

“Dio, look, I—”

“—Oh, you’ve said quite enough. No more of that.” His other hand clapped over your mouth, fixing you further in place.

Your pulse thrumming wildly as your heart leapt into your throat, your eyes wide as you met his gaze. The sight of him, that gloating air about him as he had so casually threatened your life, sent waves of fear from the tips of your toes to the back of your throat; how had your life came to this? All you had wanted to do was finish up your shift, maybe hook up with a hot guy, forget about it and go about your day. Now here you were, stuck with a man you still could not believe was real in a house you had watched him steal with no qualm nor quarrel, trapped while he threatened you as easily as if he was simply ordering a coffee.

Scowling, he glared at you, contempt dripping from him like venom.

“Perhaps it’s time I made something abundantly clear to you. My attentions toward you are self-indulgent at best, and they only grant you a negligible amount of sway—even then, it’s when the end result will remain in my benefit. What they do not grant you is the ego you seem to possess in thinking a mere girl like you can threaten me.”

His hand squeezed around your wrist like a coiling snake. “You said you weren’t afraid of me. But I can hear the way your heart is pounding in your chest like a hummingbird, and it greatly betrays your forced bravado. That’s not to say it isn’t warranted. Were I in your situation, I would think it quite prudent to be very afraid of me from now on.”

Then he smiled, a charming veneer of effortless beauty as he hovered low, all traces of his fury dissipating as he moved his hand away and trailed a finger down the length of your jaw.

“Have I made myself clear, little pet?” 

All you could do was nod, and his lips moved to your ear.

“You can speak, darling. I’ll allow it.”

“Crystal clear,” you answered.

“Good,” he whispered before kissing your cheek. Leaning back, he freed you from his grip.

“In regards to your first demand, I don’t respect you enough to address you by name. Deal with what I call you. As for the second, you’ll serve under me as if I’ve given you gainful employment, and your insurance and other expenses will be taken care of.”

He stood, turning his back to you as he shifted his weight to one hip, tossing a callous hand to the air as he continued to speak.

“And you can relax. I have no plans to ‘kill or rob’ people with wanton abandon. This world proves to be more observant than what I recall, and leaving Cairo has only served to keep me on my guard. Los Angeles was not my first choice.”

Looking over his shoulder, he smirked. “Now for your last demand. I’m not one to force affection, nor do I think I’ll need to. The next time you’re wrapped around my cock, it will be because you begged for it.”

Is he serious right now? What a cocky fucking pig.

Mustering up one last vestige of bravery, you sat up, massaging your wrists as you scowled. You may as well have been flirting with your own demise by saying it, but you did not want to give Dio the opportunity to savor the victory of him terrifying you.

“What makes you so sure I’d want it, let alone beg?”

Barking out a short laugh, he headed to the door. “You’ve begged before, haven’t you? Now come. Show me how to use this cellphone. I suppose I’ll be needing it.”

He walked out, leaving you sitting on the bed open mouthed, reeling with whiplash; so sudden was his shift in temperament that it had left you in shock. Then you remembered the way he had shifted into something so effortlessly monstrous as he sank his teeth into you, a shudder wracking through you and shaking you to your core.

An act. That’s all it was. He’s charming when it means getting what he wants. That, that was who he really is.

“Oh, little pet,” he called in a lilting tone, its cadence a taunting melody. “I don’t hear footsteps.”

I’m in danger.

Taking a deep breath you stood and plunged into the shadows, catching up to Dio in hurried strides as he walked back into the mansion.

Chapter Text

It took little time for Dio to adjust to modern technology. Showing particular interest in apps that served as online libraries and websites like Wikipedia, it was not uncommon to find him draped across the couch, the fireplace across him burning bright, holding his cellphone aloft while fully engrossed in scrolling. At first he would occasionally look up at you with a sly grin and read out the newest conspiracy-laden headline about his previous misdeeds. But within a few short weeks, the news of the cargo ship and disappearances slowly fading from the headlines as no developments arose. Falling back into a familiar rhythm of war and celebrities, the speed of the news cycle gradually obliterated them from memory, becoming little more than something mentioned in passing before they were forgotten by the world entirely as fall slipped into its death throes.

True to his word, your expenses were paid and your healthcare fully covered, and every Friday at midnight a check that was double what you made at the bar each week was handed over to you by Dio himself. He had hired an accountant—technically, he had you do it—to oversee monthly and quarterly expenses once he had managed to obtain a social security number, driver’s license, birth certificate and passport, something that had came into his possession with startling speed. After that you heard little of the married couple who had once lived in the house; he assured you they were happy in the apartment when you had finally mustered up the courage to ask if they were still alive, and you shook off a squeamish wave of revulsion as you recalled the strange blister-like growths on their foreheads.

Happy is a word, you had thought to yourself with considerable unease. I wonder how happy they’d be once you rip those things out of their heads.

Something of a routine had settled between the two of you like rolling smog: at full dark Dio would suddenly appear like a specter conjured from thin air, a curt nod his only acknowledgement of your existence as he drifted past and through the front door; by midnight he would return, color high in his cheeks and his eyes shining like polished gemstones, demanding some random item be procured for him by morning. A Tom Ford car coat. Dress boots by Allen Edmonds. Cotton crew necks by Prada. Fitted jeans by Dior. All black, he would stress while he handed you a credit card, and with no small amount of amusement you would compare in your mind his choices to the strange yellow getup he had worn on Halloween. Then he would send you to get the clothes fitted to his body once they were in his possession, scribbling his measurements onto a sheet of paper and shooing you off to hunt down a tailor. Occasionally he would offer you a barely-concealed sneer as he looked over your outfit and tell you to buy something for yourself, and though it was tempting out of spite you never did.

It was a reprieve, his lack of focus on you. After the burst of anger in the guest house that night Dio seemed to close in on himself, and during the day your life remained your own. Largely keeping to the guest house and lingering poolside until you were needed, reading or aimlessly scrolling through your phone on days where your friends and family were not busy, your mornings and afternoons were mostly calm. Though it was, admittedly, alienating. There was a concerted disconnect between you and those that you held close in your former life; working for Dio necessitated some withheld truths, and you were wary of bringing anyone under his ire. As solitary as your new life was, that specter of danger that had haunted you from your car to your apartment and dragged you to this house had all but evaporated into smoke; eventually, you adapted enough to breathe.

Until, scrolling through TikTok by the pool’s edge as the sun began to set one unseasonably warm late November afternoon, you saw something that had promptly knocked the wind right back out of your lungs.

It was a short video, roughly thirty seconds long. Slowly panning upward from a sharply defined v-shape that dipped low into unbuttoned leather pants, a perfectly manicured hand trailed over sharply defined abdominal muscles that glowed white against soft flickering orange light as the person’s hips swayed in a way that made you blush as the hand moved upward. Readying to scroll past it, you stopped as the hand brushed past a scar that roped around the person’s neck like barbed wire; a scar you recognized all too well, the sight of it alone enough to make you nearly drop your phone into the pool.

“What the fuck,” you whispered slowly, “is he doing?”

In three-quarter profile, Dio smoldered at the camera, a devilish smile across his open mouth as he ran his tongue suggestively over his fangs and tossed his head back, his eyes burning garnet in the darkness. Checking the username and seeing that he had picked one for himself—lord_dio, you noted with an eye roll—your attention was drawn toward the likes and views and you gasped, looking up in disbelief before turning your attention back to the screen. 

1.4 million likes? Four million views? How the hell…? How did he even do that?

Caught somewhere firmly between curiosity and incredulity, you checked the comments. 

user8827640572: WOOF WOOF BARK BARK

magnetits: I would pay you to spit in my mouth

chxmiimiin: do you need a cat? I can meow

fatherpucci36: It just jumped in my hand I swear

user1983747294: Don’t ask me the color of anything

midlerrose: MY BACK ARCHED ITSELF

theentirehorse: I don’t know why this is on my fyp but hear me out

“Jesus Christ, I’m living on a nightmare planet,” you muttered as you scrolled through a sea of bowing emojis and purple squares of white stick figures on their knees. “There’s no way. No way.”

Going to his profile proved another shock. Boasting two million followers, none of the views on his videos dipped below seven hundred thousand. Of which there were many, you had discovered in a mix of horror and intrigue. Each of them featured Dio in various states of undress or tightly fitted clothing, all of them highly suggestive in nature. A linktree in his bio led you to his Twitter—half a million followers, you noted—and his Instagram, close in followers to his TikTok. 

Setting your phone down, you stared at the water as the sky darkened, dumbfounded. The song he had used continued to play softly in the quiet, an awkward laugh leaving you as one by one the lights of Los Angeles below blinked into life, the silhouette of the skyscrapers downtown all at once aglow.

Guess he was doing more than just looking up more than Wikipedia articles. Maybe I’ll have time to bleach my fucking eyes in between whatever errands he sends me on tomorrow to purge that from my mind.

Picking up your phone and tucking it into your pocket, you drifted into the house; the telltale sound of footsteps above alerting you to the fact that Dio was awake. When he had made his way down the stairs, he arched an eyebrow at you.

“You’re here of your own accord? Interesting. Usually I have to drag you from the guest house.”

The video flashed against the back of your mind’s eye and you shrugged, shaking it off. “Saw something weird in the backyard.”

“Oh? And what did you see?”

“Don’t worry about it, it’s gone. Got anything for me to do today?”

“Nothing in particular or of note, no.”

Stepping closer into view, you did a double take as he drew close, surprise highlighting your features as you looked him over. He was dressed, meticulously groomed, a jacket draped over his shoulder from a crooked finger. The faint scent of cologne, woody and heady, drifted past and you blinked. Normally he would dress more low-key for simple excursions in the night; tonight, he looked like he had just came back from New York Fashion Week.

“Are you…going somewhere?”

“I am,” his tone was indifferent. 

“…Where?”

I really have not been paying attention, have I? What have I been missing here?

“Is it important or otherwise pertaining to your duties?”

“No, I guess I’m just curious.”

“I’m going out.”

“Like on a date or something?”

He smiled thinly, studying you with an inscrutable expression, a subtle note of amusement dancing in his eyes before flickering out of view. “Or something.”

Stepping close, he tucked a finger under your chin. “Don’t worry, I won’t be gone long. You’ll have plenty of time to sulk at me over the course of the evening, little pet.”

Calling over his shoulder as he walked away, you shook off the unwarranted feel of his touch. “Feel free to avail yourself to anything inside and occupy your attention in the meantime, you do live here after all.”

At that he stepped out the door, shutting it behind him with a quick thud. Perplexed by the entire interaction—really, the day in general—you sat on the couch and turned on the television, losing yourself in a marathon of old Twilight Zone episodes on the SyFy channel and drawing a blanket over your body as the night wore on.

But something nagged at you, some hateful curiosity that pushed the image of Dio’s unsettlingly successful thirst trap back into your mind, and you opened Twitter. Clicking the media tab, you were greeted almost instantly by his silhouette drenched in red light. Very clearly nude though nothing was easily visible, he leaned against the doorway of the en suite bathroom; immediately following that was a photo of himself in the mirror decked out entirely in black, a gold cross earring dangling from his ear. Reading through the replies, it became apparent all too quickly that his followers thought he was some alternative model that was really into vampires, comparisons to famous literary examples abounding in the myriad of threads and freely buying into the idea of his persona. A grim idea dawned on you as you read through them, one that brought you back to that night in the back of your car.

He wants them to think that, doesn’t he? He can just bring them right to him.

Dread unfurled in the pit of your stomach like the wings of a hideous beast readying to take flight and you set the phone back down, picking it up once more as the telltale ding of a text punctuated the dialogue drifting from the television.

It was Dio.

“Think of the devil and he shall appear,” you said as you opened the message.

Go to my bedroom and set up a space on the wall for something to be mounted on display.

Suppressing an eye roll, you typed out a quick response.

Define “something.” Like are we talking picture frames, a wall mirror, what?

His only answer was a photo of what appeared to be a golden bow and arrow, nestled firmly in white silk.

“The fuck is that?”

Quickly you made up your mind that it was better you did not know and replied, a short and to the point “K.” that was left on read. With a sigh, you set down your phone and looked through the endless rooms before finding a hammer, stud finder and nails in the garage, and headed into Dio’s room. Not since your first night in the mansion had you set foot in it, though you did see movers carrying things into it during the day over the course of a couple weeks while Dio had slept in another bedroom, and a small taste of apprehension budded in your throat as you climbed the steps. The idea of going back in there felt like some sort of trespass against him, one that did not sit right with you while your hand turned the knob and you switched on the light.

He kept it tidy, almost impeccably so. A cleaning service maintained most of the estate with the exception of the spaces that were indisputably his, and though the rest of the house remained decorated in the style the previous owners had settled on he had imposed his own flair into the area, everything from the curtains to the bedsheets a tribute to the jewel-toned opulence of the Victorian era. Deep burgundy sheets made of silk stretched over the California king mattress he had custom ordered, set tight into an ornate wooden bed frame with a sapphire blue velvet canopy. Draped across the wooden floors was an antique rug he had personally sought out from Liverpool, and against the walls were tall bookshelves filled with everything from novels to encyclopedias, all of them hardcover tomes with yellowed pages. Beside the fireplace—the only modern thing left in the room—was a high-backed emerald sitting chair and a coffee table, an empty wine glass set beside a stack of books and a candle on its surface.

It was at odds with the house itself, a strange and tangible example of how Dio’s existence was at odds with the world. Briefly you wondered if he had recreated his bedroom from when he was still human, dismissing the thought as soon as it came while scanning the walls. Finally settling on a space near the door to the walk in closet, you set to work, marking out the studs in the wall and hammering nails where they best fit and returning back to the living room. You wanted to get out as quickly as possible; the idea that if he came home to you still in his bedroom, it might tear down the barrier you had subtly helped build between the two of you fresh in your mind.

Dio came back at half past one in the morning, waking you up from the shaky half-sleep you had slipped into on the couch.

“Did you do as I asked?”

“Yes,” you answered, not looking away from the television. You had not been watching it, really, but you did not want to make eye contact, his social media profiles still fresh in your mind.

“Good.”

He disappeared up the steps, shutting his bedroom door behind him.

After an hour, your phone went off.

Come up. I need you to move it.

“Move it yourself,” you called from the couch, loud enough for him to hear. His voice shot back from the upstairs bedroom as clear as if he had spoken from right beside you.

“Have you forgotten that I pay you or are you intentionally being difficult?”

“Fine,” you muttered as you got up, turning off the television. Heading back up the stairs and to his room, you walked in without knocking.

Clad solely in silk boxers that left very little to the imagination, Dio lounged on the bed, his eyes fixed on the bow and arrow. Pointedly looking away, you followed his gaze.

“Where did you want it moved?”

“Hm? Oh. I changed my mind.”

“In the thirty seconds it took me to get up here?”

Ignoring your quip entirely, Dio spoke; it became clear he did not intend to move it at all and had used it as a ruse to bring you to him. “Do you know what that arrow is capable of, little pet? It bestows upon those whose flesh it pierces exceptional abilities, provided the person possesses the constitution to withstand it.”

“Cool, Dio,” you said awkwardly. “Can I go now?”

“Take the arrow off the wall.”

“…Why?”

He did not answer, waiting in silence as you crossed over to the arrow and lifted it from its place. It felt light in your fingers, the tip of it gleaming in the dim light thrown from the candle.

“Now come to me,” he said softly. 

Cautiously you approached his bedside, keeping your stare fixed at a spot just above the corner of his lip. In your hands the arrow seemed to pull toward Dio, almost willing itself toward him as if it were sentient. It unnerved you greatly, that strange gravitational pull it seemed trapped within. 

Is it him or is it the arrow? Either way it’s fucking weird.

Dio watched you intently. “I am quite interested in the possibilities this arrow may open up for me, but reluctant to use it myself. If it were to backfire, I would have only myself to blame. So I’ll have you do it.”

Uncomprehending, you glanced from the arrow in your hands to Dio reclining on the mattress, eyebrows raised.

“What?”

“Was I not clear or are you simply obtuse? Strike me with the arrow.”

Your response was immediate, incredulity taking root in your voice. “No. You don’t pay me enough for bodily harm, and as satisfying as it is to think about it I’d rather not stab you. Plus, what if it doesn’t ‘bestow upon you exceptional abilities’ and you just end up injured or dead? What happens to me?”

Dio chuckled softly, sitting up in bed and holding your gaze, the intensity behind his stare and the close proximity sending your heart pounding in a way you did not like at all. A mix of adrenaline and something else, something that reminded you of the definition of his muscles and the feeling of his lips on your skin, shot up to your throat and brought a flush to your cheeks. Swallowing down the lump in your throat as Dio took hold of your wrist, his touch like a brand, you could not bring yourself to look away from him as he smiled.

Focus, get your mind off his abs and his pretty smile—pretty? Good lord I’m hopeless. He’s reprehensible, remember?

“Is that concern? How adorable of you. It won’t hurt me. But if, by some cosmic trick of fate, it did, then it would be your responsibility to see to it that I was restored to good health. Consider it part of your contract.”

Tapping a long finger against where his heart had been as he let your wrist go, his smile widened, fangs visible in the dim light. “Do it.”

The arrow’s pull was strong in your grip, your knuckles white as you held onto it harder than you were sure you needed to. Taking a deep breath, you looked down at the arrow before looking him square in the eye.

He’s not going to relent, is he?

“If you get hurt, promise me nothing will happen to me.”

“You do love your promises, don’t you? Very well. I swear it.”

“Fine. Lay back.”

“I think I rather enjoy when you take charge,” he said with a wink, and you sighed in exasperation. “Do more of that.”

“Dio, don’t make this weird.”

Because stabbing your boss, who just so happens to be an immortal vampire that you had a one night stand with before being roped into his wild ass schemes and apparently spends his free time posting thirst traps on Twitter and TikTok, isn’t already weird enough. No, the flirting is where you draw the line, right?

Raising the arrow, you steadied yourself as you planted your feet on the ground and brought the arrow down swiftly onto Dio’s chest, closing your eyes once it met its mark. In your hands it felt as if the arrow moved of its own volition; against your eyelids, a searing greenish-white light flashed, enveloping you in its light like a firework. A small gasp left him, and an eerie stillness settled over the room as the light died down. With great trepidation you opened your eyes, your hands still tightly wrapped around the arrow’s shaft.

Dio’s eyes were open and glossed over, fixed in an unseeing stare at the canopy above. His body lay limp on the mattress, his head just slightly turned to the right on the pillow. A cry of panicked shock tore itself from your throat and you ripped the arrow from his chest, tossing it to the ground with little care where it lay.

He was dead. You had killed him.

“Oh no.” Anxiety wracked through you like the tremors of an aftershock and you clambered onto the bed, straddling him and placing both hands on his chest. “Oh no, oh god, no. Don’t be dead.”

In high school you had taken a CPR course as extra credit for health class and thought little of it—now, you wished you could travel back in time and thank sixteen-year-old you as you hastily pressed down on his chest and tried to remember the chorus of “Staying Alive” by The Bee Gees and brought your lips to his. Breathing into him, you nearly screamed when his hand settled onto the small of your back without warning, recoiling from in horror as he looked up at you in faint amusement.

“You asshole,” you shouted, hitting him in the chest as hard as you could manage. It did nothing aside from send an aching throb from your knuckles to your shoulder; punching him felt like hitting a wall. Shaking out the pain in your hand as he stifled a laugh, you glared down at him. “Were you fucking playing dead?!”

“I was temporarily unconscious,” he said coolly. “That was to be expected.”

“By who?”

“By me,” answered Dio as if it was obvious. “I am not foolish nor reckless enough to endanger myself for personal gain. Did I not assure you that I would be all right?”

He caught your hand in his own, the other still firmly planted on the small of your back. “Although I am not quite sure I am after those chest compressions. Were I mortal you would have broken my ribs.”

“Shut up.” Smacking down on his chest again and trying in vain to get off of him, you frowned. “Let go of me.”

“Oh, but I do so enjoy it when you’re on top.”

Brushing an errant hair from your face, he smirked. “I seem to recall you enjoying it as well.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

That elicited a laugh outright, one that shook his frame beneath you. “I would love to see you try.”

The pressure in the air shifted around you in the room, distorting and growing heavy. Something felt distinctly off as Dio’s eyes flicked over to a spot above your shoulder, triumph gleaming vermillion in their depths as he sat up, holding you in place with his arm. The unshakable feeling that there was a pair of eyes boring into you from behind took root, fear firmly rooting you in place along with his arm.

“Dio?” Apprehension strained his name on your tongue. 

“You’ve done well,” he murmured, still looking over your shoulder as he addressed you.

Summoning the courage to follow his gaze you found the room to be empty, yet the feeling that the two of you were not alone persisted. Then the arrow rose up from the floor, almost as if it had been lifted gently by two hands, and you screamed. Holding onto Dio as it floated across the room in a languid pace before taking its spot on the wall, you stared transfixed in horror at the arrow.

“What the fuck is happening?”

“It’s all right,” Dio said quietly. “There is nothing to be afraid of. I mentioned the arrow bestowed upon those fit to withstand it certain abilities, did I not? This is one of them.”

“What is, fucking telekinesis?”

“No,” he laughed. “A Stand.”

“You’re making zero sense right now.”

Patiently, as if he were a parent explaining basic math to a child, he spoke. “A Stand is the manifestation of one’s fighting spirit, capable of a range of abilities as an extension of oneself. Some are lucky enough to be born with such a gift, others given it by the arrow. You, as someone who does not possess a Stand, cannot see mine; I, however, can see it and the Stand of anyone else who possesses one.”

“A Stand? What does yours do?”

“That remains to be seen,” he replied. 

“How did you even find this? How did you find out about them?”

“The internet.” 

Something in the way he said it told you he was lying, but you did not press it further. The entire situation had given you the creeps, something furthered only by the hand placed on your back. Realizing you were still holding onto Dio, his face inches from your own, you quickly let go of him as if the feeling of his touch burned at your skin. Then the pressure of the room shifted back to normal, the feeling of eyes boring into you dissipating into thin air.

“Tell me,” he said after a moment, his expression uncharacteristically gentle. “Did you try to resuscitate me out of fear for your safety or mine?”

Thinking back to your earlier panic, your cheeks burned. In truth, it was a bit of both. Had Dio died, that surely meant everything leading up to him taking over the mansion would somehow fall squarely on your shoulders and you feared the repercussions greatly. Aside from that, there was the fear that you had—however unwittingly—taken a life, something that did not at all weigh lightly on your conscience, even if it was someone like Dio. But there was a small, quiet part of you that feared for him too, one inextricably linked to that unsettling flush of color that had stolen across your features when he had first spoken to you, first kissed you, first put his hand at your waist and—no, don’t think about that while you’re straddling him. Don’t think about that ever, actually.

“Does it matter?” You could barely hide the embarrassment in your voice, looking away from Dio. 

“How interesting,” he mused. “You seem intent on not being forthright yet you tell on yourself so easily.”

He let you go.

“I believe that’s all I need from you tonight. You may leave.”

Wordlessly you climbed off him and the bed, heading to the door as quickly as you could manage without breaking into a sprint. From the bed Dio watched you, his lips curled into a thin smile as he sank into the pillows and picked up a book from the bedside table.

“Oh, one last thing.”

You froze at the door, turning back to him.

“What?”

He did not look up at you as he spoke. “Stay in the main house tonight. If I do need you, I would prefer you in close proximity.”

The words left you before you could stop them, and you cursed yourself for opening up the possibility. “Need me for what?”

“To monitor the after effects of the arrow,” he answered simply, turning a page. “Such matters are not well documented.”

At least he’s not making this weird.

“You got it, Lord Dio,” you said with a mock-salute. 

Guess I am, though, because what the fuck was that?

Dio, it seemed, appeared to be on the same wavelength as you. Quirking up an eyebrow, he glanced up from the page. 

“Ah, that. Interesting how technology works, isn’t it? Bare your midriff for a bunch of touch-starved people and gain fame overnight.”

“That’s not the only thing you bared, apparently.”

Wow, I am on a roll here. Mouth, meet foot. It seems to be permanently lodged in there anyway.

A teasing note crept into his voice. “Oh, come, little pet. I have more common sense than that. There’s nothing visible, what would I have to gain from such exposure? Though it’s my understanding people would pay to see it.”

Smirking, he snapped the book shut and held your gaze. “Shall I take them up on that offer? Start a—what was it called?—an OnlyFans account? All sorts of material exists on that platform. I’ve even had several people ask me for collaborations on it, should I ever make one.”

“Whatever you do, keep me out of it.”

Dio opened the book and resumed reading, his quiet laughter a breathy exhale. “Take the room closest to mine. You can return to the guest house in the morning.”

Leaving the room and making way toward the guest house that had become your refuge, you quickly brushed your teeth and showered, shaking off the night’s events under the hot water as you readied yourself for the night. Changing into oversized, worn-out pajamas that served a dual purpose—being both comfortable and decidedly unflattering—and drying off your hair with a towel, you grabbed your phone charger and returned to the main house, taking the bedroom across from Dio’s and settling in, locking the door behind you. The flurry of emotions you had been subjected to throughout the day finally settled squarely onto annoyance at your situation. Out of spite you turned on the TV and turned up the volume, prompting an immediate text from Dio.

If I have to hear it, at least make it interesting to listen to. Perhaps broaden your horizons with a documentary?

Casting a long glance at the door, you switched over to Netflix and put on SpongeBob SquarePants, eliticing another.

Must you be a brat?

You increased the volume.

Of its own accord the lock turned and the door opened and instantaneously you felt it, that same strange pressure as the air shifted around you. Beside you, the television remote raised from the mattress and the television clicked off, the bedroom door opening and closing as the remote floated out of the room the room as your phone vibrated in your hand.

Consider that the first known ability of my Stand.

“Fuck you, Dio,” you said loudly.

Apologies, little pet, but it would seem I am quite exhausted from tonight’s events.

A moment passed, the silence heavy and quiet, before your phone went off once again. A Venmo notification—you had taught Dio to use Venmo the week before—lit up at the top of the screen, five hundred dollars being sent over. 

Buy yourself new pajamas. You sleep like a beggar. 

In protest, you sent the money back. “Hey, they’re comfortable! How the hell did you see that, anyway?”

They’re hideous. And make that two known abilities. 

“Not all of us sleep in silk boxers.”

It took a long moment for Dio to respond, the blinking ellipses on the screen signaling that he was typing lasting for far longer than the nine word response you ultimately received.

Quite true. Shall I do away with them entirely?

Then he sent you a photo from the waist down, burgundy sheets low enough on his body to show that he was wearing nothing but high enough to prevent it from being fully obscene, the hem of the sheets strategically placed just below his hips and the tuft of black curls at the base of his dick. 

“Don’t make me block your number, this is workplace harassment. And don’t send your Stand in here, it’s fucking creepy!”

From the bedroom, you could clearly hear Dio’s laughter.

Chapter Text

Thanksgiving had came and went in a flurry of feasts, Friendsgiving gatherings and awkward family get-togethers, itself the last bastion of fall surrendering quietly to its ever-losing battle with winter. With little argument Dio had allowed you to take a week off for the holiday, a curious concession on his part that you did not dwell on too long as you fielded awkward questions about work from friends and family alike, only sharing that you had been offered a far better paying job as the personal assistant to an influencer and relying on the fictional existence of a nondisclosure agreement you had invented on the fly to stave off further interrogation. When you would return back to the mansion, Dio would ask politely about your evening before flitting off into the night, often not returning until the short hours before dawn with his cheeks flushed red from both blood and the cold. 

Not once since it had happened had Dio brought up the arrow nor his Stand and you did not question him about it. That was not to say that it did nothing to pique your curiosity. Why he had wanted one, or needed one, was beyond you, and almost nothing turned up when you had exhausted every search engine known to man in addition to painstakingly combing through Reddit threads to glean any information on them. In the days that followed, Dio had retreated into apathy toward you, once again engrossed in his phone. This time, however, felt different; he seemed almost agitated, constantly checking his email and social media accounts before clicking his phone off and disappearing into his bedroom. 

One night, as you sat at the kitchen island waiting for your Postmates order to be delivered, Dio descended the staircase leading to the second floor at full dark, sparing you a quick glance. 

“Good. You’re here.”

“Yep.” Drumming your hands briefly against the countertop, you eyed Dio curiously as he checked his phone. “So. What’s on the schedule today, boss?”

A long sigh unfurled from Dio’s lips as he sat down on the couch, phone in hand, speaking over his shoulder in a tone that could best be described as weary; it was unlike him, a jarring departure from his usual bombastic arrogance or disregard. 

Oh, so he’s finally going to tell me why he’s being so cagey lately. 

“I’ve received an email,” he said slowly, his brow furrowed. “Pertaining to my DNA results.”

His—his what?

This revelation floored you. Had Dio taken the time to mention he was considering doing any sort of genetic testing, you would have strongly cautioned him against it. The idea itself held little harm for the average person, but Dio Brando was by no means an average person. Any results it would have yielded would have brought with them far too many questions, ones you were certain not even the silver-tongued former lawyer could talk his way out of. Gently broaching the subject, you splayed your hands onto the countertop in an effort to ground yourself. 

“You did a DNA test? What was it, Ancestry? 23andme?” Carefully evading the question of why Dio had endeavored to put himself in such a sticky situation, you watched him with greatly exaggerated interest; you had learned quite quickly that Dio was far more interested in talking when he knew he had a captive audience.

He went on as if he did not hear you, though by the way his voice perked up slightly it was evident the display was one he had been hopeful to elicit with the revelation.

“A staff member reached out to me personally, stating that my DNA was so peculiar that they wish to test me. According to them, my results indicate I have the DNA of two wholly separate people, both of whom would have had to have been born in the mid-1800s for my genetic connections to be feasible. They believe it’s an anomaly.”

At this, Dio laughed loudly, clearly amused by a joke he neglected to let you in on. That was something you were a bit too interested in to let slide, and you pressed the matter.

“Two people? Is that even possible?”

Pausing, the corner of your mouth quirked downward, another question springing to the forefront of your mind. “When were you born, anyway?”

Dio continued to ignore you, opting instead to wave around his phone screen briefly from the couch before returning his attention to it, his features drawn sharply into a look of hawkish amusement. “According to it, I am fifty percent Italian, and…one-hundred and fifty percent English.”

Sitting up, he turned toward you. “It has also shown me my living descendants. For example, it thinks I have a grandson living in New York, a great-granddaughter and a great-grandson living in Japan, a great-grandson living in Kentucky, and two direct descendants in Florida. They’re of little relevance in the context of this conversation and are an issue I’ll deal with later, but there is some information that troubles me.”

Put a pin in that for now, he’s clearly building this up for some reason.

“Which ones are troubling?”

Caught between a grimace and a scowl, Dio’s attention shifted back to the phone. “It would appear that I was a bit reckless in my youth. I looked through some records on this Ancestry website which indicate that I had a son in October of 1889, and through that son’s lineage I have a direct descendant that was born in England in 2002. He is my last living direct relative, his father died the same year he was born.”

“Did it give you his name?”

“Diego Brando.”

Though subtle, you did not miss the way Dio had scowled.

“I’ve been looking into him, he’s a rather famous horse jockey based out of London. According to his biography, he was nicknamed “Dio” by his mother and grandfather as an homage to his ancestor, Dio Brando. I’m sure you can see how this poses a problem to me.”

Ah. There’s the big reveal.

Frowning, you leaned against the countertop, propping your head up with your hand. Gesturing to the phone, you shrugged.

“That’s definitely a problem, Dio. Just call it a family name and pass yourself off as his cousin or something?”

“Not that simple,” he said quietly. “The website lists me as his grandfather three times removed despite my birth year being listed as a mere eight years before his own.”

Dio had not shown you the documents the couple had managed to source for him; remembering them sent a shudder down your spine and neck. Shaking it off, you quirked an eyebrow upward and briefly checked your phone to see if there were any updates on your Postmates order, the app stating that the driver was en route to pick up the food. Then you turned back to Dio, intrigued.

I’m just learning a lot about him tonight, aren’t I?

“Your fake papers say you were born in 1994?”

“Yes,” he answered, sparing you a quick glance. “Specifically October 31st, 1994. I was turned at twenty-one but I opted for twenty-seven to make my existence here a bit more believable.”

Then he gave you a lecherous grin. “I guess you could consider our little dalliance in the back seat of that rusted out death trap you drive a birthday gift.”

Ignoring his quip, you directed the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Just say it’s a website fluke if he contacts you, you’re a distant cousin or something, and leave it at that. Things glitch all the time.”

“Do they?” Dio’s voice was light. Lifting up his phone to you once more, he had drawn up the photo of a man wearing a baby blue sweater cross-hatched with gold, his long blonde hair falling loose around his face and chest from beneath a matching blue equestrian helmet with the letters “D-I-O” tacked onto the front. His eyes, bright blue and framed with long lashes, sparkled with the same arrogance that swelled in Dio’s own, his mouth bearing the same smirk. Holding up the screen directly beside his own face, the resemblance was unmistakable; when compared, the two looked like twins. 

Just kidding, that’s the big reveal. Over a hundred and twenty years since Dio had a kid and yet, this guy looks exactly like Dio. Holy shit, those Brando genes are strong. 

Dio had read your surprise quite easily. “How do I explain the resemblance, then, little pet?”

“That,” you whispered in awe, leaning closer to look at the photo, “I don’t know.”

Settling back onto the couch, Dio stared up at the ceiling. “He’ll be alerted to a match, no doubt. I expect I’ll hear from him soon enough.”

The conversation trailed off into silence, one which endured for twenty-five more minutes before your Postmates driver had delivered your order. Picking at it and making small conversation—“did you know that the guy who used to own this chicken place murdered his mom and sister? It’s called the Zankou Chicken murders, look it up”—the topic of Diego Brando quickly was dropped, Dio unwilling to get into it further as he slipped into a businesslike voice and began dictating emails that needed to be sent.

Over the following two weeks, he had kept you swamped with work. Dio had begun securing brand deals, somehow; namely from fashion designers that had sought him out personally to model their clothes and cosmetic companies eager to send over PR packages. It was your responsibility to filter through those requests and reject or approve them at his discretion, and on top of the bustle of the holiday season, you had quickly forgotten about Dio’s ill-advised foray into the world of genetic testing. You had forgotten, that is, until one particularly cold and muggy mid-December afternoon when the doorbell had sounded off at half past three, and you hastily opened the door to find Dio’s four-times-removed-grandson standing on the front porch. 

Given Dio’s intimidating height and build, you had expected Diego Brando to be far taller than he was. Standing at a solid five-foot-three and more slight of build than his photo had let on, he was by comparison a wisp of a man, though just as intimidating in aura as his ancestor. Opting for a less showy turtleneck in a deeper shade of blue that complimented his eyes and a black driving coat, his hair styled into a lightly tousled shag cut that softened his features, he appeared far more subdued than he had in the photo; his eyes held none of the arrogance that was present in the photo and were slightly darkened with circles that clearly indicated restless sleep, and a large bandage decorated the left side of his face from the corner of his mouth to the middle of his cheek. Slowly moving his gaze down you figure—less lascivious than his counterpart, you noted with bemusement, it was a stare that was more so sizing you up—before meeting your eyes, he nodded in greeting.

“Diego Brando. I’m here looking for Dio.” 

His voice was remarkably similar to Dio’s too, albeit slightly higher and softer; whereas Dio only occasionally slipped into an English accent, usually when angry, his was far more prominent. Not quite speaking the posh and refined King’s English, his straddled the line between that and a faint Cockney accent, lilting and melodic yet still common.

“I’m (Y/N). Dio’s assistant.” Bewildered at his sudden arrival, you stepped back from the door, extending your hand out and inviting him in. “He’s asleep right now, but feel free to come inside.”

“Asleep? In the middle of the afternoon?” Diego blinked in surprise, stepping into the entryway and looking around, mildly impressed. “Is he a vampire?”

An uneasy laugh bubbled from your lungs and you shrugged. “You know creative types, they keep odd hours. Did you just fly in?”

“Got here last night. I take it you weren’t told I’d be arriving?”

“I wasn’t,” you admitted. Keeping the conversation as light as possible, you smiled brightly at Diego, clapping your hands together. You were keen to avoid further jokes that strayed too close to the truth of what Dio was, the thought of it enough to set your teeth on edge. “So! What brings you here from London?”

“It’s a funny story, really,” he drawled as he stepped further into the entryway, continuing to look around as he spoke.

“I’m sure you can imagine my surprise when I got an email two weeks ago saying I had a living relative in Los Angeles that was over a century and a half old, and bearing the same name as the very man I was named after. Dio’s already informed me that there must have been an error in their system, seeing as his results claim he’s two separate people and was over a hundred percent English, but it was still a bit of a nasty shock. I’d all but assumed I was the last living Brando, yet here’s a distant cousin that’s seven years older than me that I had known nothing about for my entire life.”

Mustering up a nod, you smiled a little too widely. It was abundantly evident in the way Diego had spoke that he was far more shrewd than you were willing to give him credit for, his tone clearly holding within it words unspoken but easily made out: I don’t know how or why, but I know that’s bullshit.

“Crazy how the internet brings people together, isn’t it?”

“Quite.” Stopping in his tracks, Diego’s gaze fixed in the direction of Dio’s room, his head tilted upward, his nostrils flared just slightly and the tip of his tongue peeking out from his mouth as he slowly turned toward the staircase. Cocking his head to the side, he stood perfectly still, and another pang of unease throbbed at your temple. His sudden change in body language reminded you of a lizard your third grade class had kept as a pet, smelling out its food source with its tongue. 

Is everybody in this family just fucking weird?

Diego spoke, his voice unnaturally calm. “He’s up there, isn’t he?”

“Um. Yeah, that’s where is room is.”

“Curious,” he murmured. “Quite curious.”

Slowly, Diego walked toward the staircase, the tip of his tongue still curved out from his mouth. 

“I don’t think you want to wake him,” you said hurriedly, your hands outstretched in front of you to stop Diego from potentially walking to his doom. He lifted one hand in a gesture that clearly instructed you to stop, effectively halting your footsteps. 

“He’s awake,” Diego said softly. “A bit rude of him not to greet his guest, isn’t it? I’ll just pop into his room, that way we can have a chat.”

“He’s not exactly a morning person—well, afternoon person—you might want to wait until nightfall.”

Diego paid you no mind, ascending the staircase in a languid saunter with an increasingly deranged expression, sharply rapping on Dio’s door in three quick knocks. To your surprise, Dio’s muffled voice filtered through the other side, two words clearly discernible: “come in.”

Then Diego was gone, shutting the door behind him with a soft click, and panic surged up your windpipe like acrid bile. 

“Oh shit,” you whispered. “Shit. Dio, don’t eat the poor kid.”

Their voices were muffled and quiet as they quickly became engrossed in conversation, and you began to pace the stretch of floor that separated the dining area from the kitchen as you chewed your bottom lip. What they were discussing was beyond you; more than anything, you were concerned for the strange visitor, now left alone with Dio and having no idea what he was in for. He had mentioned Diego potentially being a problem, and you were far too aware of how Dio opted to deal with problems. 

It turned out, as you had discovered an hour later when the sound of splintering wood immediately preceded a piercing, distinctly inhuman screech, that you had been worried about the wrong Brando.

A sharp flash of blue shot across your periphery and bounded down the stairs, headed directly toward you in thudding footsteps.

“(Y/N),” Dio thundered from his bedroom, his voice carrying within it a stern warning. “Run.”

You did not need to be told twice, the usage of your name alone enough to convey imminent danger. Throwing open the sliding glass door and running into the backyard as fast as your legs would carry you, you spared one glance over your shoulder and let out a loud, startled scream. 

Thrashing in the invisible grip of what you were sure was Dio’s Stand was, to your immense shock, a dinosaur, its large jaws unhinged and gnashing as it struggled against its captor. Stripes spelling out “DIO” lay emblazoned across its body, streaked liberally with yellow by the tail that matched the gold prongs sharply pointing outward from the base of its head and down its neck.

“What the fuck,” you whispered, transfixed by terror, before your legs buckled out from under you. At the sound of your voice the creature stilled, its head swiveling toward you and fixing you with a piercing stare. Feral, there was something disconcertingly human behind its gaze, the sight of it compelling you back to your feet in a wild sprint to the guest house. Making it to the door and shutting it just quickly enough to catch it resuming its fight against its invisible prison, you shoved every bit of furniture you could reach in front of every door, effectively barricading yourself in. With shaking hands, you pulled your phone out from your pocket and called Dio.

He answered halfway through the first ring.

“Are you safe?”

“Dio, was that a fucking dinosaur?”

“Are you safe?” Dio repeated; usually cool in demeanor, there was a clear note of unease in his voice. “You’re in the guest house, are you not?”

“I am,” you answered in one trembling breath. “I’ve got all the doors barricaded with heavy furniture. But why is there a fucking dinosaur in the backyard?”

Dio’s tone sidled into impatience. “When I awoke my Stand, I had a hunch that it awoke the Stand of all my living descendants as well, once I discovered I had them. That is why I invited Diego here. I asked him to show me his, I did not anticipate it being that.”

“Why can I see his Stand? I’m not a Stand user. I can’t see yours, why the hell can I see his?”

“Because Diego is the dinosaur. That is his Stand’s ability.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?!”

An exasperated sigh left him. “I do not know when Diego will transform back, and I cannot leave this room for another two hours. I need you to do exactly as I say, we do not have much time. He’s unconscious for now.”

“How—oh,” you said in a low voice, remembering how Diego was fixed in place. “Your Stand.”

“Open the window to your bedroom. Quickly.”

Panic surged to the tips of your fingers, causing the phone to shake in your now tremulous grip. What if Diego gets in?

“…Why?”

“For once will you do as I say without questioning me,” Dio snapped, his voice just above a snarl, “and open the fucking window?”

The swear galvanized you into action; rarely did Dio slip into profanity. It was unseemly, he had said, lowborn and uncouth speech. Oh. Oh he’s scared.

Well, at least there’s something that freaks that man out.

Hastily making your way across the sea of sloppily rearranged furniture, you stepped onto the bed and opened the window directly above it. Two unseen appendages that felt like arms anchored themselves beneath your armpits and pulled you tightly through the small clearance the window gave you, your body just barely squeezing through without scraping its frame. Almost imperceptibly fast you were dropped onto the floor of Dio’s walk-in closet; so quickly had it all happened that it felt as if time itself had stopped before you had touched down onto the carpet. Dio stood above you, bare from the waist up, his hair tousled by sleep and his expression smoothed into an unflinching mask of calm.

“There are no windows in here,” he said quietly, eerily still as he listened. “If Diego returns to the house I can at least fend him off.”

“I quit,” you whispered shakily. “I fucking quit.”

“Oh, enough of that.” Casting you a glare of disapproval, he scoffed. “You’re perfectly fine.”

“Fine?!” Incredulous, you stood, your eyes narrowed as you pointed to the direction of the backyard. “I went from bartending and living in a studio apartment to living in Jurassic fucking Park with a goddamn vampire that has weird telekinetic ghost powers! How am I fine?!”

“I promise you, you are perfectly safe and sound. Diego can’t hurt you now.”

“How the fuck are you this confident right now?! Dio, there is a fucking dinosaur in the backyard!”

Closing the small gap between you, Dio offered you a small, patronizing smile. “It would take far more than him to best me, little pet. I merely needed to remove myself from the sun.”

Great. We’re back at “little pet” now. Love that. Looooove that.

Ruffling your hair, his gaze ever so slightly softened; had you not lived with him over the past month and a half, you would not have noticed it at all. “And you are all right, aren’t you?”

“I mean,” slowly, you spoke, scratching the back of your neck. “That was fucking terrifying, but I’m not hurt or anything. What’s with the sudden concern?”

Placing both hands onto your shoulders, Dio’s voice had settled into something close to tender. “You’re a valuable asset, and I’m quite reluctant to hire a replacement for you. I’d like to ensure you’re at least unscathed.”

Tenderness, however self-serving and hollow, suited him. He looked so pretty when he smiled down at you like that, golden-amber eyes like firelight on your skin, it was almost enough to forget that he was insufferable and had routinely jeopardized your safety from the moment the two of you had met; an observation spurned on by the adrenaline surging through your veins like wildfire through underbrush. A not wholly unfamiliar nor pleasant twinge that you were loath to name—let alone feel—ricocheted from your toes to your tongue, and you took an unconscious half-step forward, leaving yourself mere inches from him as you tilted your face toward his. An arrogant, knowing smile came to rest on his lips, and he arched a playful eyebrow. 

“Ah, so near-death experiences excite you?” Chuckling, Dio dipped low, his lips a hair’s breadth from yours. Dropping his voice to a whisper, his hands drifted down from your shoulders. “I’ll take great care to remember that.”

A loud, trilling screech pierced through the winter air outside, and Dio tightened his grip on your arms as he straightened his posture.

“Unfortunately we’ll have to wait for now, darling.” Pushing you behind him and drawing himself up to his full height, Dio readied himself for an attack, a confident smirk contorting his mouth. He was enjoying this, you realized. Not so much the brief lapse in judgement on your part, but the prospect of a fight—bloodshed, in its barest form, suited him far more than tenderness and soft gazes.

He wanted the violence Diego could bring.

But the footsteps that echoed up the staircase were unmistakably human, their source pausing just outside the door before letting out a long sigh. The sound of wood scraping against the floor followed, and within moments the closet door slowly drew open. Diego stood in the doorway, his face curiously blank, the bandage covering his cheek peeled back and hanging from his jaw. The left-hand corner of his mouth had been torn back into a hellish grin, a visible row of large, pointed teeth nestled into an overlapping jagged line across the gash’s length, his hair in total disarray and his clothing disheveled and torn. Smoothing the bandage back over his cheek, he pointedly avoided eye contact.

“My apologies for ambushing you both.” Quiet and collected, Diego began to comb out his hair with his fingers.

“You’re not a distant cousin.”

It was not a question.

“I’m not,” Dio answered simply, leaning against the wall.

“And her?” Diego pointed to you, something vaguely apologetic dwelling in his stare as he met your gaze. “What’s she, then?”

“Just your average, boring human assistant with no Stand or vampire powers,” you said quickly, flustered. “Nothing else.”

Dio cast an amused glance in your direction and said nothing.

Diego fell quiet, shifting his gaze to Dio as he studied him with an indecipherable expression. When he spoke, his voice was clipped, each word level. “Looks like you and I have quite a bit to discuss, don’t we?”

“It would seem we do,” Dio replied evenly.

After that Diego did not leave, and four days before Christmas a headline under your news widget caught your attention: Famous London-based equestrian Diego Brando reunites with long-lost older brother, TikTok influencer Dio Brando, relocates to Los Angeles. A photo of Diego and Dio, neither appearing too happy to be photographed, accompanied the article; with a sigh, you set your phone down and watched as a team of movers brought in the myriad of designer suitcases and luggage bags he had flown in from London into the bedroom across the hall.

Chapter Text

Sat on the plush couch that dominated the living area, Diego felt nothing short of resentful. He was prideful to a fault, resourceful, ambitious—ruthlessly so—and he had used all of those qualities to redeem the Brando name and elevate it to something respectable; he had bled, sweat and pushed himself to the brink to no longer carry the name of a family mired in destitution and shady dealings, to distance himself from his father and grandfather. A mere two months ago, he would not have even considered entertaining the idea that there was another living Brando, let alone one that posed to overshadow him. He had only became aware of his existence when the comments on his social media—first sporadically peppered underneath an Instagram post or TikTok showcasing his races or the stable in which Silver Bullet had been kept, then out of nowhere a prominent recurring theme on every single thing he posted or did—asking if he was related to that Dio Brando, or if they were related why were they both Dio? Scoffing, Diego would brush the comments off as people being duped by a fake account and go about his day as if it had never happened, ignoring his gradually building irritation at the bombardment of questions.

Once it had annoyed him sufficiently enough, he had taken a cursory glance through the man’s socials with a perfunctory sneer, making up his mind quickly that the man was vapid and shallow and of little substance; a pretender to the Brando name, no doubt coasting on their eerie resemblance to one another in an effort to create some false tie to Diego, who had came to prominence through talent and hard work alone. 

Then he had received an email pinging a match from his 23andme results, a test he had taken in one of his more vulnerable moments to see if he was truly alone in the world. A sinking feeling had overcame him when he had contacted the match, praying it was not him, not that bloody tosser with his cheap vampire teeth and smoky eyeshadow. Anyone but him.

But it had been him indeed, and now he sat across from the man in his grandiose estate. Of course, he expected nothing less than excess and opulence, that being one vice they had both freely indulged in. But his was different, his was contrived—the painstaking flaunting of the nouveau riche. He had not yet learned as Diego had, rubbing elbows with the Queen at the Royal Ascot, that money talked while wealth merely whispered. Even as he sat across from Diego, swirling a wine glass that was filled with something far too viscous to be wine and smelled far too metallic, he decorated himself lavishly in designer clothing, lounging in front of him in black Saint Laurent sweatpants that cost more than most would make in a week’s worth of work. His home, too, was a monstrous display of excess, a hulking testament to his ego made of severe squares and shapes and far too many windows, curiously empty despite the nineteen bedrooms it boasted.

After a long plane ride filled with him dreading their meeting, he sat across from the man who in two short months had elevated his name to the status of Diego’s own by little more than thirst traps and silhouetted bathroom photos holding his dick, a man who thought him so insignificant that he did not even have his assistant bring Diego in to greet him, a man whose bedroom door he had blasted through and whose assistant he nearly mauled to death when he had asked Diego to demonstrate his “exceptional ability.” A man that, apparently, was exactly the creature he portrayed himself to be online.

Diego had already made up his mind to loathe him. 

“So.” Brusque in tone, Diego chose his words carefully; it was not exactly familiar ground upon which he stood. How does one go about casual conversation with someone after transforming into an extinct carnivorous beast at will in their bedroom? The thought had came to him in sardonic, staccato cadence, and he suppressed a wry grin as he fixed his stare on the man across him.

“So,” Dio said quietly, watching him with a detached interest and a long finger placed on his temple. 

“Who exactly are you?”

“To summarize? I suppose your ancestor.”

“And you’re still alive. You were supposed to have died…” Diego trailed off, doing the mathematics in his head, subconsciously raising his fingers upward to count. “One hundred and thirty four years ago, if public records are anything to go by. Said you died in a fire in 1888. Now that we’ve established who you are: what the bloody hell are you?”

“Tell me what you know about the Joestar Family.”

The question took Diego by surprise. Lost in thought, his gaze shifted over to the floor, his brow furrowed in concentration. What do the Joestars have to do with any of this? 

He did not know much, admittedly. His most familiar knowledge of the family was in proximity to that low class nobody Johnny Joestar, who had almost obliterated his illustrious racing record during both the Epsom Derby and the Japan Cup. Even then, he only knew of the strange family dynamic he had been born into: the illegitimate son of a wealthy real estate mogul, he had grown up on some backwater farm in Kentucky with minimal knowledge of his fossil of a father nor his siblings until he had reached the age of fifteen. He had thought him pathetic and laughable then, his talent on the track notwithstanding.

But who was Diego to judge him now? Here he was, sat across from his three-times-removed grandfather, who appeared to be the same age as him despite being well over a century old. 

“Bits and pieces, really,” he said finally, reclining back into the sofa as he met Dio’s gaze. “Only what I know from Johnny and what I’ve read in the news.”

At that Dio’s eyebrows shot upward, the only indicator that Diego’s admission had somehow caught the man off guard. “Johnny?” 

As even as he had kept his tone, Diego could pick up on his disgust quite easily.

“Jonathan Joestar. He goes by Johnny. He’s another jockey, based out of Kentucky.”

“Interesting. And what did Johnny tell you?”

He had not said the name so much as spat it out, keeping his stare fixed on Diego.

It was better to be point blank, he had decided. Dio seemed the type to appreciate when someone was forthright. “Why?”

“Humor me, Diego.”

With a shrug, he filled Dio in on the small shreds of Joestar history that he knew, sparing no detail. He could not suppress the scornful curl of his lip as he sneered, nor the derision shining clear in his eyes, and by the time he had finished talking Dio was grinning in the same manner a proud father would regard his son.

“You show a clear disdain for them,” he mused. “Perhaps you truly are of my blood. But I ask because it is integral to our own. Our history with the Joestars dates back over a century. To understand who I am, why I’ve brought you here, and who you are, you’ll need to know it.”

Leaning forward, Dio steepled his fingers, a strange smirk on his face. “Johnny Joestar’s namesake, Jonathan Joestar, was my adoptive brother. That fire I was supposed to have died in was the Joestar Mansion Fire of 1888. Jonathan himself set it in an effort to kill me. Clearly, he failed.”

Mouth agape, Diego’s eyes widened. This, admittedly, did take him by surprise. He had expected many things from Dio, but not a one of them was that Dio had such deep ties to the Joestar line. Maybe that’s why Johnny is the only one that’s ever came close to beating me, it’s karma. Though his lips moved, no sound came out, and Dio continued on.

“Do you know what the Stone Masks are?”

“No,” Diego answered truthfully; history was not exactly his strong suit, nor archaeology. That was something better left to academics and squalid little men in tweed jackets, Diego only cared about things in this world that could push him further away from obscurity. A trait, he would learn all too quickly, he had inherited from his ancestor.

“Artifacts, originally used in sacrificial rituals by a certain sect of Aztec cults. When one dons a Stone Mask and activates it with blood, its tendrils activate, piercing the skull of its wearer. There, it unlocks the full potential of the human brain, allowing the wearer to transcend humanity into something far greater. Something nigh-indestructible, immortal, ageless, weak only to the sun and its energy.”

“Like a vampire,” Diego said slowly, shuddering as he recalled his earlier flippant remarks to Dio’s assistant. That explains the immortality, at least.

“Precisely,” Dio replied with a grin. From where he sat, Diego could clearly make out the elongation of his lateral incisors, the sight of them chilling his blood. “Our history is intertwined by one simple thing: the Stone Mask. It is why I sit here before you, and why I survived the fire despite Jonathan’s best efforts. Neither George Joestar nor that oaf Jonathan understood the power of the Stone Mask, electing to use it as a mere wall decoration. But I did. I saw its power and claimed it for my own, and I used George Joestar’s blood to do it.”

“You killed him?” Keeping his tone neutral, Diego watched Dio closely. He was looking for shock and awe, but if he had to be honest with himself, Diego would have done the same thing were the tables turned.

“It was not the first time I had engaged in the act of patricide,” Dio said calmly. “But yes, albeit unintentionally. I was aiming for Jonathan. The old fool jumped in front of the dagger for his son. Which, really, did nothing in the long run. I killed Jonathan two months later.”

“Is that why I’m like this?” Diego spoke quietly, tapping the bandage on his cheek. “Is that why I have this power?”

“That is something else entirely. A Stand. Your ability to be a Stand user was dormant within you as my descendant, manifesting only when I had awakened mine. I’ll show you.”

As if from thin air, the specter of something distinctly human-like and yet not at all human materialized into the air behind Dio, one he recognized instantly as the thing that had restrained him earlier in the afternoon. It matched him in size and muscle, its deep grey flesh adorned in an outfit of gold that matched the headpiece it wore; looking at it reminded Diego of the busts of Egyptian pharaohs he had seen in school textbooks. A motif of hearts lay engraved on its chin, pelvis, and the base of its abdomen, starkly feminine in contrast to its face and build. Clock faces adorned the backs of its hands, two diving cylinders affixed to its back, its eyes that same peculiar amber as its master’s. It eyed Diego impassively, standing eerily still.

“This,” he said quietly, “is The World. Named by the fortune teller from whom I procured the arrow that bestowed upon me this ability, it is named after the final card in the major arcana, representing time and tectonic shifts, the harbinger of the new world order.”

“So we both have our own scary monsters,” Diego said in awe as the apparition dissipated into the ether. As contemptible as he may have found his ancestor, he could not deny that he was impressed. “But I transform into mine.”

Dio chuckled. “Scary monsters? I suppose that’s one way to word it. No, this is the manifestation of our fighting spirit. Its abilities reflect our strength and potential. Although, given your earlier display, I would say that’s a fitting name for yours.” 

In silence, he absorbed all of this information, the crackling of the fireplace the only sound between the two of them. Exhaling in one long sigh, he watched Dio closely, leaning forward in his seat.

“What’s all this got to do with me, then? Why am I here?”

“I intend to accomplish what I set out to do a hundred years ago and take this useless world for all I can get. I brought you here to elevate you to a place befitting your heritage: unparalleled greatness. One hundred years ago, Jonathan stood in my way. But he’s long dead, and the Joestar clan seems far too feeble and weak now to stop me. To stop us. I brought you here because of your exceptional ability, Diego. It is of great use to me. Follow me to the top of this world, and I will give you all that it offers.”

“Does she know?” Pointing to the guest house, Diego’s eyes flicked over to the backyard. “What you are?”

“She does,” answered Dio, “though I’ve intentionally kept her uninformed of the intricacies of it all.”

“What’s the deal with her, anyway?”

Dio’s expression hardened almost imperceptibly. “Nothing,” he replied coolly, sparing a glance toward the guest house. “A means to an end. I need eyes during the day, so I use hers.”

Diego was no fool, nor did he appreciate being played for one. One of the more unfortunate aspects of being imbued with the sudden ability to shapeshift into a prehistoric reptile—his Stand’s ability, he had to remind himself, there was a name for it now—was the ability to pick up on pheromones; given Diego’s previously human constitution, they were all to easy to sniff out on people from all walks of life. He had been hit with them the moment he had opened the door to the walk in closet, the stench emanating off Dio and his assistant alike. And as detached as Dio had made his voice out to be, even he could pick up on the slight force behind each syllable; the crack in the veneer. He had heard the way Dio referred to her—“little pet,” a dig with a hint of endearment, ignoring the way her nose crinkled with exasperation and the roll of her eyes—and he had seen the way he had watched her as she had departed to the guest house not an hour before. 

She had meant something, Diego had reasoned, maybe not a lover but certainly someone he had enjoyed to keep around. If Diego were to ascend to the level of greatness he so richly deserved, the one his ancestor now promised and he had fully intended to use to surpass him, he had to be sure to account for any sort of point of exploit and deal with it accordingly.

But was she a weakness? Was she something to exploit, or an obstacle in his way?

“Seemed like a little more than nothing when I walked in.”

He offered a placid smile, one offset only by the tightness of his jaw. “And it seems you have a rather inventive imagination. Commendable, but woefully off the mark.”

A weakness, then.

Affecting an airy tone, he smiled widely, effortlessly invoking that dauntless charm of a twenty year old with the world at his feet. “So she’s single, then? You wouldn’t mind me asking her to show me around Los Angeles for a night on the town? She’s rather cute, I must say.”

“She’s off-limits to you,” Dio responded curtly. “As “cute” as you may find her, she serves a purpose, and I cannot have you jeopardize the image I have cultivated for her benefit.”

Giving him a piercing look, Diego moved in for the kill. “Right. Is that image the one floating around on Twitter?”

To his surprise, Dio laughed, a low and guttural sound that held in it genuine mirth. “You’ve done your homework. It is, yes. When you present yourself as one thing and keep up that appearance, it diverts less discerning eyes from your true goals. Presenting myself as a bored man granted eternal life diving headfirst into hedonistic displays of sexuality and vanity in a world I can barely grasp, that offers an alibi. When I depart in the evening, for instance, she assumes I’m off to bed some unsuspecting sycophant. Not that I’m, say, tracking down Stand Arrows and exceptional Stand users, or searching for any Stone Masks that have not yet been destroyed by the Speedwagon Foundation.”

Pride gleamed ruby red in his eye, underscored by the glow of roaring embers in the fireplace. “I should have expected nothing less than a discerning eye from you. You’re a Brando after all.”

Diego buried down the sneer that threatened to contort his lips, the scoff that pushed back at his throat. Of course I’m a fucking Brando. You’re the one that clawed his way out of the fucking Atlantic to take my spot at the top.

“Now, back to the topic at hand. Stay here, in my mansion. Join me, and I will bring you to greater heights than a racing career could ever take you. Whatever you want, it will be yours.”

“Whatever I want?” Diego raised an eyebrow. “Let’s say I wanted to be the mayor of Manhattan. Or Los Angeles. Could you give me that?”

“Why aim so low? I can give you governor. I can even give you Speaker of the House, or a place in the Senate. My connections extend far deeper than the braindead influencers of Los Angeles.”

“And if I wanted to return to London?”

“Prime Minister Brando has quite the ring to it, wouldn’t you think?”

Prime Minister Diego Brando. Speaker of the House, Diego Brando. Governor Diego Brando. It does have a nice ring to it.

Smirking, Diego tossed his head back. “Deal.”

He did not know that as he had requested it, Dio suppressed a laugh of his own. That he had no intention of honoring his agreement; to him, Diego was merely a means to an end. He could not possibly know that Dio had held him in the same contempt, eyeing his throbbing carotid in his neck as he nursed his glass of long-since stale blood. Shaking Dio’s hand, he had no idea that he had fully intended to kill Diego once he had served his purpose. 

After all, there was only room for one Dio Brando in this world.

Chapter Text

Checking the planned route on Waze as you headed onto Sunset, you gave your driving companion a sidelong glance. “We should be there in an hour. Less if the FasTrack lanes aren’t crowded.”

With a loud groan, Diego crumpled in the seat. “What’s the use of a gigantic motorway if it still takes ages to get anywhere?”

“Ah yes, the great philosophical debate of everyone in LA trapped in rush hour every—did you call it a motorway?”

“Sorry,” he cleared his throat, splaying his hands out in an exaggerated gesture conveying something of massive size. “A like, really big highway, dude.” 

You elected to not touch on the polarity between the Valley Girl speech and the overly contrived Texas drawl that he had put on, instead snickering at another point of contention. “You still didn’t get it right. Here it’s a freeway.”

“Freeway, motorway, highway, who cares. No matter what you call it, it’s a nightmare. How far is thirty-eight miles in civilized numbers?”

“Google it, I’m driving.”

“An hour to travel sixty-two kilometers? That’s mad!”

“We know.”

Crawling through traffic at just above a snail’s pace, it was not difficult to miss the way Diego’s eyes would wander over to the distant mountains as the two of you took the 405 south toward Palos Verdes, a hint of intrigue resting in the bored sigh rattling from his chest.

“Didn’t know it snowed in California,” he said after a moment, pointing out the window. “I thought it was always sunny and everyone wore cut-off shorts and had tans.”

Snow did not itself fall in the Los Angeles Basin; in the rare few times it ever had, it was regarded with an attitude that was nothing short of apoplectic. It lay beyond, dusted on the rolling peaks of the San Gabriel mountains and blanketing sleepy communities south of the Grapevine like Frazier Park. On a clear day after a blessing of rain or a fierce bout of wind, in those rare few hours where LA proper wins its battle against the ever-enduring smog, the snow capped mountaintops can be spotted from as far back as the coast. If one were to stand at the very top of the right high rise and turn clockwise, they might even be lucky enough to see Mount San Jacinto, Mount San Gorgonio and Mount Baldy in one sweeping glance. 

But explaining all of that to Diego was too bothersome; instead, you shrugged.

“You do know California has one of the most unique climates in the world, right? We’re one of the only places on earth where you can find all five climate types in close proximity.  Like, the hottest place on the planet is Death Valley and that’s four hours away. Those mountains are two hours from here.”

“Wow, thanks for the science lesson, professor. I’ll be sure to remember that.”

Then his brow furrowed and he settled back deeper in the seat in silence, his hand resting against his cheek with his elbow propped up against the door. 

“Thanks,” he said haltingly. “For taking me. I appreciate it, all things considered. For what it’s worth, I really am sorry.”

“Don’t mention it. And it’s fine,” you added, offering him a shaky forgiving smile. “I’m choosing to believe you weren’t intentionally trying to attack me when you went full homicidal Barney the other day.”

It was not fine, but it did no good to make the poor kid feel any more guilty than he already did. He had largely avoided you since it happened, and you were not too sure what to do now that you were in the car with him. Mentioning that it had given you nightmares and you now elected to sleep with a metal bat at your bedside would at best make him upset; at worst, it might push him over the edge and you risked being trapped in a car with him under the influence of his Stand. Part of you was certain when Dio had instructed you to take him to the stables once Silver Bullet had settled in that he was counting on that happened, and that part of you was not willing to risk proving Dio right.

Unusually taciturn, he let the Barney comment slide.

“Well,” muttered Diego. “At least I know what it is now. A Stand.”

Speaking gently, you lowered your voice, keeping your eyes on the road. “What happened the first time you, y’know, like transformed or whatever?”

“I went absolutely feral. Destroyed my entire flat. Thankfully no one was around. Imagine the headlines, The Sun would have a field day. Diego Brando, human raptor.”

“Aren’t they a shitty tabloid? Like the National Enquirer of the UK, right?”

“Yes, but tabloids can do just as much damage as a reputable source, just in a different manner.”

“Fair,” you said with a nod as you sped up, the traffic mercifully letting up as you made headway on the 405. “Are you excited to see your horse?”

Diego shot you a derisive look. “Am I a twelve year old horse girl to you? I’m ensuring he’s in good care. Forgive me, but I don’t exactly trust the judgment of someone who has no experience with horses to have provided good boarding for an internationally renowned thoroughbred.”

“Palos Verdes has a pretty famous equestrian community. I thought you’d know that.”

He said nothing, turning his attention to the trees and buildings whipping past before pointing to the window. Docked in an expansive green field lay the Goodyear Blimp, the hulking monolith of steel grey, bright yellow and navy blue emblazoned with the tire company’s logo such a familiar sight that it held no shock nor awe; in the hours when it was not meandering its way through the skies, it was merely the telltale sign that you were passing through Carson. 

“Is that an airship? What’s it doing here?”

“What, you mean the Goodyear Blimp?” Giving it a bored glance, you shrugged. “That’s the airfield for it.”

“Is it really?” Diego said, sitting up a little. “Does it ever fly?”

“I mean, yeah. It’s a daily occurrence here. I remember when I was a kid, my cousins and I used to try to shoot at it with a BB gun.”

“That seems…idiotic.”

“We were seven, Diego.”

“Bloody hell, that’s worse!” He sat up, wildly gesticulating with his hands as he stared at you, aghast. “Are Americans just gifted weapons as children?”

Well, this could get ugly quick.

“Hey, look!” Changing the subject, you pointed to your phone screen. “Drive time went down. We should be there soon.”

“Thank God,” he sighed, falling back to the seat and rolling his eyes. “You’re a dull conversationalist, being trapped in a car with you has been agony.”

“And yet you keep talking. This is the most I’ve heard you talk since you came here, now that I think about it. Are you okay? Do you have a fever? Withdrawal from the lack tea and crumpets finally getting to you?”

“That’s all you’ve got?” A wry chuckle left him. “Clearly, Dio doesn’t employ you for your wit.”

He had said it as bitingly as he could, but it was clouded over by the note of curiosity in his voice. Furrowing his brow, he gave you a sidelong glance.

“Why does he keep you around, anyway? What’s he got on you?”

Shifting uncomfortably in the seat, you wondered where to begin as the litany of reasons you stayed dwelled on your tongue, painfully sour and acidic; lemon juice and salt pressed to the flesh with ice, they seared against you like wounding fire. The couple, now holed up in your studio apartment with those weird growths on their heads while Dio lorded over the spoils of his ill-gotten gains. Still unsure exactly what they were, you had the sinking suspicion the couple had been brainwashed by them. The fear that they could also somehow be lethal weighed heavily on your conscience, and asking Dio about it would somehow prompt him to use it to kill them. Then there was the clear memory of the way his eyes burned as he had threatened you the one time you tried to gain leverage, outmatched by the phantom pain in your neck from his bite and the faint scar that remained. Buried beneath it all, there were two undeniable truths: you could not shake the feeling that you had brought all of this on yourself, and it was all because despite your best efforts, you tended to forget your ability to think clearly whenever he was in too close of proximity.

Yep. I’m saying none of that. Abso-fucking-lutely none of that.

“Nothing,” you said after a moment. More lamely, you tacked on one small addendum: “the pay’s incredible.”

Diego shot you a long, plain look, and you could practically hear the unspoken words behind it: I’m not an idiot, and you’re a bad liar.

“That’s all?” His voice was light, the slight edge to it only reaffirming what you had gleaned from his expression.

The rest of the car ride passed in uneventful silence, and in no time the two of you were driving along the coast up the southern leg of Palos Verdes Drive, the jutting cliff side of Portuguese Bend Point stretching out into the sea from the pebble-hewn shore, a swathe of soft chaparral dotting the winter-barren hills behind it. By then Diego was absorbed into his phone, brow knitted together in concentration as he scrolled. As you turned onto Narcissa Drive, he glanced up briefly, giving the old trees lining the road a once-over before returning his focus to whatever had commanded his attention; by the time the car rolled to a stop and he unbuckled his seatbelt, the ghost of a smirk was resting on his face.

Once a part of the sprawling Vanderlip Estate, the ancestral home of the founders of the four communities that made up the  Palos Verdes Peninsula, the Portuguese Bend Riding Club itself was a mix of The stables themselves were marked by bright blue doors, standing in stark contrast to the subdued colors of the Tuscan-style complex. Beneath the afternoon sun, the sky absent of a single cloud, its walls shone blinding white; beneath the faded terracotta roofing, they were bright as bleached bone in the sunlight. Looking toward the grooming stables, you saw Diego striding toward an employee, an older woman with her hair tied back into a loose bun whose jaw fell open for a brief moment when she recognized the boy marching toward her, the expression of surprise on her face smoothing over as he closed the distance. They spoke in light, pleasant tones, the woman pointing over to a specific stable before leading Diego in that direction, and as you watched them your phone buzzed in your pocket.

It was Dio, the text message made up of screenshots of an exchange between him and Diego, captioned with two simple words: Explain this.

Raising an eyebrow, you read the screenshots, your mouth slowly falling open as you did so.

I’ve arranged a small getaway for us in some resort town called Lake Arrowhead over Christmas. We leave tonight, I’ve arranged a late check in to accommodate your “condition.” Pack your bags, Diego had written.

Dio’s response was short and sweet: No.

Aw, come on, granddad. Show some Christmas spirit, I’m sure you’ve developed a bit in your absurdly long life. Plus, it’ll give you some variety for your…content.

Then, another text. Unless you would like me to take your darling assistant all by herself. I’d be more than happy to.

Another one word response from Dio, this one fully capitalized: NO.

Diego had responded with a shrugging emoji.

Well, it’s non-refundable, so someone has to go. I’m sure she’d like the scenic views and wouldn’t turn down the opportunity.

He followed up with a paragraph, one that fully read as a taunt. 

Actually, forget that I invited you. She’ll be more than enough for company, we’re having an enjoyable time without you as it is. Perhaps after I take her to a late luncheon as a token of gratitude for her trouble, I’ll have her accompany me around the area whilst I pick out a nice Christmas present for her. You don’t mind, do you?

At that the screenshots ended, and you were caught somewhere between amusement and confused horror. Partially, you admired Diego’s brazen gall; that admiration lay dwarfed by the hope that he was only joking.

Your phone buzzed in your hand. 

I’m waiting.

Smirking, you made a split-second decision to follow in Diego’s footsteps, throwing both concern and caution out the window. Hadn’t Dio taunted you all the time anyway? What was the harm in giving him a taste of his own medicine?

The idea was too good to resist.

Shouldn’t you be asleep or something? Why are you up?

Yes. Do not change the subject. Were you aware of this?

No, but it sounds like fun. You sure you don’t wanna come? Diego’s got a point.

Have him cancel the reservation immediately and if he does not, you have my full and express permission to do it yourself as you throw him off a cliff.

Your smirk shifted into a full-blown grin.

Nah, I’m good. I wanna go.

Immediately your phone began to ring, Dio’s name at the top of the screen, and you tucked your phone back into your pocket as you headed toward the stables. When he saw you coming, Diego gave you a sly grin, one hand resting on the snout of a sienna-hued horse sporting a thick mane of jet-black hair.

“So, he’s texted you, then. What did he say?”

“He’s pissed. He’s calling me right now. He said if you don’t cancel the reservation I have to, right after I throw you off a cliff.”

Adopting a mocking pout, he turned to the horse. “Well, that’s not very nice, is it?”

“You know, if you’re going to fuck with him, at least warn me first.”

Casting you an amused glance, he shook his head as he brought out his phone. “Why? So you can tell me not to?”

Then, checking the notifications on the screen as his eyebrows shot up, he looked back to you with a grin. Mischief sparkled in his eyes, clear as a summer sky and sharp as a knife’s edge. “I guess I spoke too soon. Looks you’re not his blindly loyal lapdog after all, though it does beg the question as to why he insists on calling you “little pet” if you aren’t. Please tell me that isn’t some pet play kink I’m being exposed to against my will.”

Suppressing a shudder, you shook your head. “Honestly, it’s to be a dick. I told him to use my actual name and he said, and I quote, “I don’t respect you enough.” I’m even saved as little pet on his phone.”

“I can see that,” Diego responded dryly. “Nonetheless, I can begrudgingly admit when I’m impressed.”

“I just saw an opportunity and took it. Plus, it’s not like you were serious.”

“Oh,” he chuckled. “But I was. I booked the reservations while we were driving.”

“Diego,” you whispered with no small amount of dread, the idea of having to be stuck in a cramped cabin with both of them reading awfully similar to the start of a true crime case. “Why would you do that?”

“If I have to suffer here, I’ll do so in a way that is at least entertaining. And nothing is more entertaining to me than the promise of watching that arrogant bastard sulk about in a Christmas themed resort called “Santa’s Village.” And didn’t you say you wanted to go?”

“That’s because I thought it was a joke!”

“Look,” Diego sighed, putting his phone back into his coat pocket and raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I promise I won’t use my Stand, if that’s what you’re scared of. And I’ll be nice to you. I won’t make a single quip. That alone would drive him mad, anyway.”

“Are you doing this because you want to torment Dio, or because you actually want to go?”

With a scoff, he turned to the horse. “Obviously, to torment him.”

The sneaking suspicion that he was not wholly truthful began to take root, and you watched in silence as he lifted a bristled brush from the wall and began to comb through the horse’s coat.

“Is that Silver Bullet?”

“No,” he drawled over his shoulder, stringing along the word in one long, sarcastic sigh. “This is a completely random horse I found.”

Walking closer to the stable, you raised your hand as Silver Bullet tossed his head back, his dark eyes fixed on you intently. A distant, long-forgotten fear of horses you had developed in your childhood flashed past and dissipated in an instant, and you took another step forward as Diego watched, wary and apprehensive.

“What are you doing?”

“Petting your horse, what’s it look like I’m doing?”

You placed your hand on his neck, gently petting at his coat. Silver Bullet stilled, almost as if he was unsure of what was going on, before allowing it to happen with a close-mouthed snort. Eyes imperceptibly widening as they shot back and forth between you and the horse, Diego leaned back, crossing his arms.

“He doesn’t let people do that.”

“He’s letting me.”

“Which perplexes me to no end.”

“He’s beautiful,” you said after a terse moment of silence, brushing his mane out of the way to reveal a star-shaped mark above his eyes. “What kind of horse is he?”

“Arab thoroughbred,” Diego answered with a note of pride. “One of the foster homes I stayed at the longest was in the Cotswolds owned with two geriatric racehorse breeders, and I came back to work for them when I aged out of the system. They let me buy him once I saved up enough money.”

Diego had struck you as a well-articulated powder keg that could explode at any moment—something you were sure had to be a genetic trait, given Dio’s temperament—and you did not want to chance that while he was being considerably less abrasive than usual. Electing not to touch on that reveal, you kept your tone even, placid enough to keep it surface level, curious but unwilling to let him in on the fact that you were sussing him out.

“Do you still talk to them?”

“From time to time.” He seemed content to leave it at that, shooing you away before returning to grooming Silver Bullet’s mane. 

“It’s a nice stable,” he said quietly, almost as an afterthought. “Good choice. You did your research.”

“The person I was talking to said that they mainly board horses owned by English riders. I don’t think horse racing is as big a thing here as it is in England, so I figured that was a good sign.”

“It is, in certain circles. You just aren’t part of it.”

“Fair,” you nodded. Your phone had begun going off again, and you fished it from your pocket to see a slew of texts and missed calls from Dio before the screen faded into another incoming call from the man himself.

“Is that him?”

“Yep. Shit, I think he’s actually pissed off.”

“Good. Bloody tosser,” Diego muttered, paying you little attention.

Finally answering, you spoke casually, as if you had not a care in the world. “What’s up?” 

“Did he cancel?” Dio was abrupt, sparing both himself and you from preamble.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, no. We’re going.”

“Little pet,” his tone was even, the unmistakable grit of his teeth as he forced the words to sound pleasant a sharp underscore. “The two of you are to get back here, immediately, and if it is not cancelled by the time you’ve returned I am draining you both dry.”

“Why do you have such a stick up your ass about it, anyway? It’s just a vacation.”

“Do you truly not have a functioning brain cell in you? Think. This could feasibly expose me to the sun. What would happen if I were to go into the sun?”

Before you could respond, Dio’s immediate concern now plainly evident, Diego had snatched the phone from your hand and lifted it to his ear.

“Thought about that already, granddad,” he said with cool levity, “I rented an AirBnB that had a basement level converted into a bedroom suite, just for you. No windows.”

How the hell did he hear that?

A brief pause hung heavy in the air, Silver Bullet tossing his head back—clearly annoyed that the attention was no longer on him—as he stamped his foot in his stable. Putting your hand on his neck in an effort to calm him, you watched Diego warily.

“Consider it my attempt at goodwill after our first meeting. Or don’t, I don’t care. But I promise you, it is not with an ulterior motive that I have planned this. I truly mean well.”

The smirk on his face clearly said otherwise.

“Listen, granddad, we’re supposed to be pretending we’re brothers. You know, as in part of family? Families go on vacations. And I—” Diego abruptly trailed off, staring in a mix of horror and derisive anger at a spot just above your shoulder. “—Oh, bloody hell. I’ve got to go. Talk to your assistant, she can explain how families work.”

Diego shoved the phone at you, his jaw tight as he pushed by. Raising the phone back to your ear, you turned, watching as he stormed up to a teenaged boy in a wheelchair being pushed toward the exit by a man in a wide-brimmed hat.

“Uh…hi,” you said awkwardly, unsure of what to make of what had just transpired.

Dio sounded mildly bored, all traces of anger gone from his voice. “What happened?” 

“I don’t really know. I think he recognized these two guys that were leaving, he looked mad.”

“Ah. Young blonde boy, wheelchair-bound, accompanied by a taller blonde man?”

“Wait—yeah, how’d you know?”

“That would be Johnny Joestar and Gyro Zeppeli. He’s told me about them. Johnny is the son of Joseph Joestar, Gyro is the great-grandson of Caesar Zeppeli. Curious that they’re in Los Angeles.”

Blinking slowly, you looked between the two boys and Diego; the one in the wheelchair was very clearly annoyed, whereas the one pushing him was grinning in the way one would at the prospect of punching someone they particularly loathed without repercussions.

“Am I supposed to know who Caesar Zeppeli is? And wait—you said one of them Joseph’s son? The kid in the wheelchair barely looks eighteen and the guy pushing him has to be least twenty-five at the most, how would they be Joseph’s son?”

He did not answer. “Ensure that they’re not killing each other, won’t you? Or don’t, it matters little to me at this point. Perhaps Diego’s untimely death will get me out of this vacation.”

Dio hung up, and with no small amount of dread you walked over to the three, Diego’s voice carrying over the still winter air.

The two had matched Dio’s description to a T. Sporting dirty blonde hair that lay straight and fell to the middle of his back, the man behind the wheelchair was tall and of slim build; wearing a long sleeve shirt in deep mauve, paired with a tan leather jacket that was the same color as his hat and black pants, he dressed in a way that came off as both outlandish and subdued, his green eyes burning with evident vitriol as he watched Diego. To contrast, the boy in the wheelchair dressed like he modeled his appearance after the sky, his light blonde hair hanging in loose waves around his collarbones with two tufts sticking out from the top of the pale blue toque decorated with stars that he wore. He had bundled up in a pale blue and white hooded sweater and matching sweatpants and looked utterly miserable, his eyes downcast and his hands folded in his lap. He was picking at his fingernails, clearly doing everything in his power to not have to acknowledge Diego’s existence.  

Guess they’re not friends.

“Why are you here?” Diego pointed at the two, his back turned; the one pushing the wheelchair saw you coming first.

“Johnny’s visiting me,” he said smoothly, a lilting hint of an Italian accent dancing over the words. Turning his attention toward you, he spared Diego a withering glance. “I moved here two years ago. Who is this?”

“My brother’s assistant,” Diego answered with a dismissive wave. “Pay her no mind.”

“Ah,” he smiled widely, prominently displaying the full grill emblazoned with the phrase “GO! GO! ZEPPELI!” he wore on his teeth. “And do you have a name, signorina?”

Definitely more outlandish than subdued, I was not expecting a full grill from an Italian hipster.

“Pack it in, shit-breath,” shot back Diego. The man ignored him, watching you expectantly.

“I’m (Y/N),” you answered with a wave, one the boy in the wheelchair returned halfheartedly.

“Your brother,” he said quietly, his eyes fixed on Diego. “Dio, right?”

“Yes,” Diego muttered. “Why?”

“Nothing.” The boy settled into quiet, his expression pensive as he continued to watch Diego. Something, a fleeting glint akin to recognition and dread, passed through his companion’s gaze at the name; it came as quickly as it went, and he had taken your hand.

“Gyro Zeppeli. Piacere, mia cara.” Gyro brought your hand to his lips, ignoring the start Diego had given at the gesture. “This is my friend, Johnny Joestar.”

“Nice to meet you both. How do you two know Diego?”

“Oh, goddamnit,” Diego sighed under his breath, squeezing the bridge of his nose in annoyance. 

“We’re both jockeys,” Johnny answered. “We’ve raced against Diego before.”

“Would have won, too,” Gyro shot a glare at Diego. “If this limey fuck didn’t cheat.”

“I didn’t cheat, you’re just shit at racing.”

Gyro’s eyes lit up at the dig and he bristled, tossing back his hair and drawing himself up to his full height. “You kicked Valkyrie and damn near knocked me off my horse, and then did the same to Slow Dancer and Johnny.”

Diego put his hands on his hips, a wide smirk prominent on his face. “Can’t prove it, can you?” 

“All right, all right,” you put your hands up, palms facing outward. “If you guys are gonna duke it out can you do it when I’m not in charge of Diego’s well-being?”

“Of course, signorina,” Gyro said lightly, flashing you another wide smile. “And after I beat his ass, I can treat you to a dinner at Eataly to celebrate. They have the finest Italian food you’ll find outside of Italy itself. I should know, I’m from Naples.”

“Good God, can you keep it in your pants for one bloody day, Zeppeli?”

“Jealous that it’s bigger than yours, Brando?”

Stifling an awkward giggle, you trailed off as you noticed Johnny’s stare was now fixed on you.

“You’re Dio’s assistant?” His voice was curiously plaintive. “Not Diego’s? Why would you be in charge of Diego’s well-being?”

Probably because Dio’s waiting to see if I get my head bitten off by his grandkid. 

The answer you had given was far less violent. “I guess his brother is just very fond of him?”

“Right. His brother. I forgot.” Johnny turned his head and looked up at Gyro, frowning. “I’m feeling a little tired. Can we leave now?”

“Oh, right. Sorry to cut our meeting so short, mia cara. Find me on Instagram and I’ll follow you back. I’m sure I’ll owe you that dinner soon, and I’d like to be able contact you for it. Ciao, bella.”

He turned to Diego, his expression falling flat, before leaving. “Eat shit, Diego.”

Not long after that, Diego had demanded to leave, stomping his way toward the car in irritation. Wordlessly you followed, tucking your hands into your pockets until you had reached the driver’s side door.

“Are you hungry?” Diego spoke calmly as the entrance to the Portuguese Bend Riding Club was swallowed up into the scenery behind you, his eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror. A strange grin had plastered itself onto his face, and he brought out his phone. “I’m rather famished. Let’s find a place to eat. I’d like to go shopping, as well. We’re making an excursion of it.”

You had known full well that Diego had said it to carry through with his jabs at Dio, only suggesting lunch and shopping to further piss him off; nevertheless, you pointed to the phone in his hand. To be honest, you were a bit peckish, and anything to take Diego’s mind off of the tense meeting between him, Gyro and Johnny sounded like something worth risking Dio’s ire for. “Find something on Yelp, and I’ll take you.”

“On it,” Diego said with a calm smile.

But there was another reason, one you did not notice trailing behind you in a nondescript black car—one that Diego had seen, and had prompted him to make the suggestion. Nor did you see the short text he had sent out to Dio as you had turned onto Palos Verdes Drive: We’re being followed. Johnny Joestar and Gyro Zeppeli. I’m stalling until nightfall. She doesn’t know. Hope you’re quite ravenous, you’ve got a choice between Italian and Southern for dinner.

***

Johnny sat in the passenger’s seat, his expression glum. Beside him, Gyro watched intently as Diego and the woman that had accompanied him climbed into a beat up station wagon and ambled down the drive, his face similarly grim.

Gyro spoke first. 

“Are you going to call them, Johnny, or should I?”

“You do it. I don’t want to talk to Joseph.”

“Gotcha.”

Nodding, he pulled out his cell phone, brought it to his ear, and waited.

“Nonno? L’abbiamo trovata. Sí, e Diego. Cosa vuoi che facciamo?”

A long pause, punctuated only by Gyro’s fingers drumming against the steering wheel, followed; then, with another nod, Gyro spoke.

“Bene. Ciao, Nonno.” Hanging up, he started the car, keeping his eyes ahead as he made his way down Narcissa Drive and caught up to the sedan.

“We’re bringing them back to my Nonno’s. Him and Joseph want to question them about whatever Dio’s planning. That asshole Diego’s probably in on it, so I’m doubtful he’ll talk, but I don’t think the assistant is.”

Staying as far back as he could without losing sight of the car or arousing suspicion, Gyro tailed them as they turned onto Palos Verdes Drive South. Johnny glanced out to the sea, his mouth a thin line.

They had followed the car to an unassuming, two story building on Deep Valley Drive, and Gyro parked on the street some eighty feet away. Painted a blinding shade of white with the name “Mama Terano” in scrawling uppercase cursive against a black awning, they had got out of the car and walked inside. In silence the two of them waited for nearly an hour and a half, catching a brief glimpse of a hostess leading them to a patio ensconced in trees not long after they had walked in. From there they had went to a colossal outdoor shopping center in Torrance, one Johnny had Googled as they had done a lap around the parking structure and settled on a spot twenty spaces behind them.

“This here is called the Del Amo Fashion Center,” Johnny had said quietly, agitated by the silence and unusually eager to break it. “Says it’s the sixth largest mall in America on Wikipedia. Two and a half million square feet.”

“What’s the biggest?”

“Mall of America, in Minnesota. Over five and a half million square feet.”

“Really? Have you ever been, Johnny?”

“No.”

“We should go, if we ever find an excuse to go to Minnesota.”

“That’s an excuse to go to Minnesota.”

They had settled back into silence, neither one of them actually wanting to go to the Mall of America nor Minnesota. Johnny himself had not wanted to leave Kentucky, and he knew full well that Gyro was not thrilled at the prospect of moving to Los Angeles when Caesar had requested it. After two hours they had returned to their car, Diego laden with shopping bags while she had only carried four.

“You think she’s pretty, Johnny?” Gyro had asked as they followed them out of the parking structure.

“I dunno. I didn’t look at her much. You do, though, don’t you?”

“I’m a Zeppeli,” Gyro said airily, shrugging as he drove. “Every woman is beautiful to me, it’s in my blood. You think Diego thinks she’s pretty? I know it bothered him when he thought I did.”

“Dunno,” Johnny repeated. “Don’t care, either. But I do wonder…Gyro, did you see her neck? She had two tiny scars. Like two bug bites.”

“You would notice that,” Gyro remarked with bemusement.

Flushing with indignation at the comment as he remembered the night Gyro had gotten him drunk enough on his eighteenth birthday to admit that he had a certain thing for girls with bug bites, he let it slide; he had brought it up for a reason, and the reason was not because of that. Johnny had noticed the tiny pinprick-like scars while she had been talking to Gyro, just barely hidden by a smattering of foundation and concealer, the skin blended over but still raised with scar tissue. They were equidistant to one another, placed vertically along the side of her neck and above her jugular, and they had sent a shiver through his blood.

“No, that’s the thing. They weren’t bug bites, Gyro, at least no bug I can think of. You know what they looked like? Like those vampire bites in movies. Didn’t my dad say Dio was a vampire?”

”He did,” Gyro said quietly. “But he said vampires fed from their fingers, remember? Why, do you think Dio bit her?”

“I think,” Johnny said with a grimace, “if vampires feed from their fingers, Dio did it because he thinks she’s pretty.”

Gyro gave a derisive snort. “Maybe that’s why she works for him, she’s under his spell.”

“Maybe,” Johnny muttered as Gyro followed them onto the 405, night settling over the horizon behind them.

By the time they had reached the secluded promontory where Dio’s mansion sat, full dark had settled in. Gyro had killed the headlights right before turning onto the street, neither of them remarking on the peculiar sight of the gate still being open. A sinking feeling had settled in Johnny’s stomach, one of mounting foreboding as they passed through the gate; one that had become justified while Johnny watched it slowly roll shut before it had disappeared from view halfway up the road leading to the house. They had parked beneath the shade of a giant tree, the front yard curiously dark, and half a hour later Diego and the assistant stepped out from the front door with suitcases in hand, heading toward a sleek black SUV that had been parked next to the sedan. 

Gyro unbuckled his seatbelt.

“Stay here,” he said quietly, his voice terse. 

“Gyro,” Johnny murmured; Diego was staring directly at them, his trademark smug smirk on his face. The assistant seemed oblivious, loading luggage into the trunk and disappearing into the house. “It’s a setup. They knew we were following them. Start the car, we need to get out of here!”

“Fuck,” Gyro cursed, grabbing his seatbelt. “You’re right. Merda, no wonder the gate was open!”

It had happened instantaneously, so quickly that neither Johnny nor Gyro had time to register that anyone had moved. One moment, they were watching as her and Diego were loading up the car; the next, Gyro was screaming at the sight of a monstrously built blonde man crouched low beside the driver’s side window, a wicked grin split wide across his lips. Johnny had recognized him instantly, the sight of him enough to make his stomach go hollow.

That’s him. That’s Dio.

Then the window had shattered, and a large hand had grabbed Gyro by the neck.

“No,” Johnny shouted as the man pulled Gyro from the window and tossed him to the pavement. Setting his sights on Johnny, he walked slowly toward the passenger’s side, slinking forward as if he were a lion in the Serengeti closing in on a wounded gazelle; a shout from the doorway stopped him.

“Dio, remember our agreement!”

The assistant?

Dio watched her emerge from the door, his face contorted in fury. Her eyes were trained on Gyro, though she had glanced over at Johnny to make sure he was all right.

“I doubt they’re here to kill us. Gyro, are you here to kill us?”

“Diego, maybe,” Gyro wheezed as he sat up, rubbing his neck. His face and right arm were bleeding, the sleeve on his left torn. “But that’s out of a personal vendetta. Not you.”

“Why,” Dio seethed, lunging toward Gyro. Lifting him by the collar, he brought Gyro eye level to him. “Are you here?”

“We’re supposed to bring them both to my dad and Gyro’s grandpa,” Johnny shouted through the broken window. Gyro cast him a pointed glare, silent in Dio’s grip. “There, that’s all! Now you know.”

A pleading note seeped into Johnny’s voice. “Let him go, please.”

“Caesar and Joseph? How quaint.” The blonde man sneered, glancing over at Johnny as he dropped Gyro back to the ground. Sauntering up to the car and leaning through the broken window, he smiled tauntingly at Johnny.

“Well. Since you’re so eager to talk, get out your phone and call your father. Tell him if he and Caesar wish to meet me, they’re free to come find us. Oh, and be sure to stress that if they fail to rescue you by dawn, both of you are dead. Regardless,” Dio had said the word loudly, glaring at his assistant through the windshield, “of what I may have promised in the past.”

Sliding out from the window he turned his back to Johnny, facing Gyro with a hand on his hip. “You. Get in the car and follow us. Diego,” he called over his shoulder, walking toward the SUV as he spoke.

“You’ll be in their car. Text her the address. Ensure that their phones are in your hands the moment Johnny hangs up, and if they put up a fight use Scary Monsters and maul them to death. If it comes to that, be sure to make it look like a bear so it can be staged as a tragic accident.”

Scary Monsters? So Diego has a Stand, too?

Hastily, Johnny reviewed his options. His Stand, Tusk, had only just manifested and as far as he knew, he needed Slow Dancer to use it; much like him, Gyro’s Stand had only came to him recently, though he knew Caesar did not have one and Gyro did not tell him how he had gotten his. He had only mentioned the Speedwagon Foundation and something called Passione back in Italy when Johnny had asked, and that Ballbreaker was not something Gyro had fully mastered either. Both of them had been taught Hamon, Gyro by Caesar and Johnny by his father, and neither of them were good enough with it to go toe-to-toe with Dio and Diego, and there was no telling what Dio’s assistant was capable of. And Johnny knew that he had no chance in standard combat, being paralyzed did not exactly grant one an advantage in a fight. He had nothing to offer, and Gyro was outnumbered and wounded. 

This is why I told him not to send me. I’m useless. I’m a completely useless person. And now Gyro’s hurt, and both of us might die. 

He had no other choice.

Swallowing air into his lungs as the assistant crossed the front yard to help up Gyro while Diego drew closer, his eyes on her while she swatted at Dio in annoyance when he had attempted to intercept her, Johnny brought out his cellphone with shaking hands and called his father.

Chapter Text

December 23rd

Gyro’s Car

7:10pm

The winding road through the San Bernardino mountains lay cloaked in darkness, Gyro driving carefully behind the SUV in front of them in total silence. They were getting close, that much Diego knew, and he was grateful for it. The steep sides of the road made him nervous, if he was to be honest with himself, and he prayed he knew his way around the motorway as well as Dio’s assistant appeared to. One wrong turn and he was plummeting toward certain death, and that was not the sort of early Christmas gift Diego wished to receive. 

If he was actually being honest with himself, it was not at all the road that disturbed him. It was what lay at the end of it, that unassuming cabin painted in holiday red and trimmed with white that he had selected; the fate of Johnny and Gyro sealed within its walls. But it was easier to chalk it up to that and so Diego did without hesitation. He reclined in the back seat in an effort to convey total relaxation, sprawling out and kicking his legs up onto the scuffed leather with a long sigh. In the front, Gyro and Johnny stared straight ahead, their faces made of stone.

“Sorry it had to come to this, chaps,” he said with a grin that was at odds with the sentiment. “But you really shouldn’t have followed us, you know. You should’ve just let us go about our merry way, and none of this would have happened.”

Johnny’s voice was plaintive. “Speaking of following. Never knew you to follow someone so blindly, Diego. Why now?”

“Who said I’m following him?” Chuckling, he brushed the hair from his eyes and shrugged. “I couldn’t care less about the stupid git.”

“Then give us back our phones,” Johnny said quietly, “and let us tell Joseph where you’re taking us.”

Diego’s eyes sparkled sapphire with venom, and he met Johnny’s stare in the rearview mirror. “Now, why would I do something like that? Getting you lot out of my way gives me one less obstacle to deal with. If it also happens to tie into that bastard’s blood grudge against the Joestars, well, that just makes it less of a mess for me to clean up, doesn’t it?”

“Leccaculo,” Gyro spat from the driver’s seat. “You’re full of shit. Your dad croaks before you take your first step so now we have to die while you go full Tonya Harding because you want to suck up to the only family member you still have.”

“Diego,” Johnny leaned forward, chewing at the fingernail on his index finger. “You’re a lot of things, but you’re not a killer. Think this through. Whatever rivalry we have on the racetrack, is it worth sending us to our deaths over?”

In the back seat, Diego’s expression soured. “Neither of you know the first thing about me,” he snapped. “Don’t pretend you do now.”

“There’s no use reasoning with him, Johnny. Trash like him aren’t redeemable. He’ll know that soon enough when Dio throws him aside.”

Diego quieted down, sulking back in the seat. The idea that Dio would stab him in the back once he had fulfilled whatever purpose he had in store had already occurred to him; a nice hefty dose of sunlight while he was sleeping the moment Diego suspected things were going south, he had decided, would be sufficient to take care of that little hiccup. That was not what had bothered him. The idea that he could be irredeemable did. That he was scum, like his predecessors, that all the hard work, elbow greasing, and charm he had put into carving out an identity that was not tainted by his family’s nature meant nothing. His father, Dario, he had been irredeemable trash, just like the man’s namesake. As had his grandfather, and the man’s father before that. Diego had grown up on the stories of their petty thievery and wasted potential at the bottom of empty bottles before his mother died, and remembered full well his grandfather’s temper. Hate had run deep in the Brando line, something Diego suspected not even Dio himself had sewn into the fabric of their fate. 

Was he no better than them, now? In the moment, the idea of getting Johnny and Gyro out of the picture for good had seemed so tempting, so natural, and he had taken the opportunity without a second thought. With relish, he had sent that text to Dio, gleefully he stalled for time knowing all the while what was in store. It was almost second nature, how easily he had slipped into villainy.

And now here he was, in the car with two men he had condemned through nothing more than a petty vendetta. And he knew it.

Sighing, he stared out the window.

“I’m not trash,” muttered Diego petulantly, less so a refutation of Gyro’s words and more so as a reassurance to himself. “I’m not irredeemable.”

“Put that in the speech you’ll be giving at our funerals,” Gyro said dryly, “I’m sure it’ll go over well.”

***

Dio’s Car

7:10pm

Well aware of Dio’s gaze resting on the white of your knuckles as you gripped the steering wheel, you focused on the road ahead, not caring to hide the tight set of your jaw or the sharp downturn of your mouth. Ahead, the mountains lay cloaked in impenetrable black, the sole points of visibility illuminated by the SUV’s headlights on the road, and you devoted your attention to that alone.

“So,” Dio said lightly, “is this the vacation you had envisioned?”

“I will drive this fucking car straight ahead and send it careening down the mountain if you talk to me again.”

“Touchy, are we?” Amused, Dio settled back. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about Gyro and Johnny. You realize they had not shown up at that stable by accident, don’t you? They were following you. If I were to guess, I’d say they have been for a while.”

“So that means they should die, right?” You did not speak so much as you did hurl the words out at him like flechettes, hoping they pierced whatever conscience remained in him. If he ever had one to begin with, you thought bitterly.

“Shouldn’t they?”

“You know, I’ve put up with a lot of shit for you over the past two months. The married couple, stealing their house and their money, stabbing you with a goddamn arrow so you could get fucking superpowers, having to run around Los Angeles to do errands for you while you post fucking thirst traps on TikTok, you casually admitting that you committed a murder and had planned to kill me before biting my neck and forcing me to work for you, and almost getting killed because you wanted to see Diego turn into a dinosaur. I put up with all of that because I figured you’d kill me if I didn’t. But this? This is my limit.”

Ignoring how your voice had grown higher and more strained with every word, you continued, Dio smiling all the while.

“The worst thing that ever happened to me was you coming into the bar on Halloween. That one singular thing. I had a perfectly normal life before you came in, and now I’m leading two people to their doom in fucking San Bernardino.”

“And who were you before I came in?” Dio spoke calmly, evenly, his expression one of utter serenity that greatly belied the glimmering malice in his eyes. “A lonely, sad little barmaid, living in a squalid little closet and sleeping on a pull out sofa, fending off the groping hands of drunken men for minimum wage and tips. Fucking you and deciding to spare you was a reprieve from your sordid existence, not a curse. You should be thanking me and my charitable nature.”

“Thanks so much, Dio,” you shot back sarcastically. “I’m so grateful that you decided to spare me from my squalid existence as a sad little barmaid. Truly, you are the paragon of altruism and your philanthropic nature should be lauded by not only me, but by the world itself. You fucking asshole.”

Settling into silence, you sighed bitterly and gripped tightly onto the steering wheel.

“I’m not doing it. I’m not letting you kill them, they did nothing wrong.”

“Oh, you won’t? And just how do you plan on stopping me?”

You said nothing, biting down on the inside of your cheek in an effort to quell the anger thrashing in the pit of your stomach like trapped vipers.

“Bombastic proclamations of heroism are all well and good, but you’re forgetting one very important little detail of this entire endeavor. I quite clearly stated that if Joseph and Caesar found them before dawn, I would spare them both. Instead of ranting about how miserable you are, why don’t you save your breath and pray that Joseph and Caesar get here in time?”

Your voice tightened. “And if they don’t?”

Dio leaned over the center console, his features thrown into sharp relief by the lights from the dashboard. A smirk played on the richness of his lips, his face inches from your own.

“Then pray that I’m a better listener than God.”

***

The Cabin

7:59pm

To put it lightly, Gyro Zeppeli was pissed. 

When his grandfather had told him the Joestars were coming to visit, he had been under the assumption that Johnny, along with his family, were flying in to Los Angeles to visit Caesar for the holidays, not that they were tracking the movements of a vampire-turned-social-media-influencer that had resurfaced after a century underwater and he would be roped into their endeavors. He had made it abundantly and emphatically clear when the task was brought to them that it was completely stupid and poorly thought out, a sentiment echoed in fewer though nonetheless colorful words by Johnny’s comically older nephew.

Now he was stuck in Lake Arrowhead with Dio and Diego Brando, and presumably had just under eleven hours left to live.

The SUV had rolled to a stop outside a small cabin flanked by towering pine trees, its ship lap paneling painted a deep hue that in the lightless night shone as a particularly foreboding shade of grey, the undertones evoking in Gyro the uncomfortable image of spilled blood in the dark. He parked behind it, taking a slow breath before adjusting his hat and reaching for the buckle of his seatbelt, ignoring how the left side of his body felt frost-bitten from the cold air that had battered through the broken window during the drive. Then, as Diego and Johnny began unbuckling their seatbelts, he got out and retrieved Johnny’s wheelchair from the trunk before bringing it to the passenger’s side door. Helping Johnny into the wheelchair, he made a mental promise to pummel Diego within an inch of his life if he got out of this alive; judging from Johnny’s scowl as he had looked up at Gyro, so had he.

Diego strolled past them, unusually solemn as he made way toward the SUV. From the driver’s side emerged Dio’s assistant, making a beeline for Gyro and Johnny as Dio and Diego headed inside.

“They’re going to tie you up,” she said in a low voice, her eyes clouded with a burning combination of anger and remorse. “In the basement. I’ll try to do what I can to help.”

Gently, she stepped beside Gyro, taking hold of Johnny’s wheelchair. “Here, let me.”

But she did not move, chewing on her bottom lip as she stared at the front door. 

“If you two have any tricks up your sleeves,” she said hesitantly, not meeting Gyro nor Johnny’s eyes. “I’d say now is the time to use them. Stands, anything. I know I said I’d try to help but I can’t do much myself.”

“Mia cara,” Gyro said warmly; he had made up his mind to like her in that moment. “We have several, and you’ve helped us already.”

“Is Dio really a vampire?” Johnny looked up at her, knowing full well what the answer would be.

“Yes,” she replied. “I take it you guys knew that, though, didn’t you?”

“We did,” Gyro said as they began to walk. “My Nonno and Joseph told us.”

“What’s his deal with your family? With the Joestars?”

“How much time you got?” Johnny asked dryly, slumping in his wheelchair.

She gave a bitter laugh, deliberately slowing her pace. “How did you know where we were?”

“My Nonno knows the people that own the Riding Club, we live in PV. I keep my horse there. That part about me moving here was true. But when Diego booked a stable for his, the owner had mentioned it to my Nonno and he called Joseph. He flew in the next day, and we got stuck with staking out the Riding Club until you showed.”

Softly, Gyro had said the next part. “I do apologize, signorina, that you were roped into all of this. I get the feeling you aren’t exactly a devoted employee of Dio’s.”

She laughed, a curious response that sent Gyro’s eyebrows skyward. 

“As of today, I’m pretty sure I hate the motherfucker.”

“That makes three of us,” said Johnny, craning his head up to look at her. 

Helping her get the wheelchair over the ledge of the porch and through the front door, Gyro sized up the interior of the cabin. Inside the walls were decorated in stone, various antiques and rustic statement pieces adorning the walls and surfaces, all of the furniture constructed and upholstered by hand. A massive fireplace dominated the furthest living room wall, a flat screen television mounted just above it; to the left was a tiny kitchen, a small round dining table pushed off to the side and in front of a sliding glass door leading to a wooden deck.

“Why did he drag us here, anyway?”

“Diego rented this before we saw you, it’s an Airbnb. It was supposed to be a vacation. Now it’s…well, this.” 

“Great,” Gyro groaned, “I’m going to die in an ugly cabin. Johnny, you should feel right at home here.”

Johnny said nothing, flipping off Gyro from his wheelchair as he looked around. He had spotted Diego first, propped up against the stone wall with his arms folded over his chest next to a wooden door to the left of the fireplace. Gyro noticed him next, following Johnny’s tight-lipped stare to the wall before meeting Diego’s eyes and scowling.

“About bloody time you lot got in here,” Diego said as he pushed himself off from the wall, uncrossing his arms as he approached. “The stairs are too narrow to try to bring a wheelchair down. You’ll have to carry Johnny.”

Silently, Gyro stepped past him and to the front of Johnny’s wheelchair, kneeling with his back to Johnny until he felt his arms wrap around his neck. Tucking his arms under Johnny’s knees, he stood and watched Diego in silence as he returned to the door. Opening it, he gestured inside.

“Right this way, lads.” 

“Go to hell, asshole,” Gyro muttered as he walked down the steps, taking each one with great caution when he realized there was no guard railing. Listening for the footsteps that followed close behind, he quickly deduced that they belonged to her and that Diego was rounding out the group in the back as the door shut.

The basement itself was large and had been converted to a bedroom, a large king-sized bed in the center. To the left of the room was a small sitting area, and to the right lay an adjoining bathroom. In the sitting area lounged Dio, almost bored as he watched the four of them filter into the basement.

When Diego had reached the bottom of the steps, Dio stood and closed the distance between him and Gyro in one long stride. 

“Set him down,” he said quietly, pointing to a spot on the floor, “right there.” 

Then Gyro heard it.

That faint, familiar chime, the sound of light personified into something audible; it lay pleasant over the tense atmosphere, warm as a summer day in Gyro’s ears as Johnny drew back one arm.

Dio, it seemed, had heard it too, and stepped back.

“Oh ho,” he spat out. “Hamon? I thought that would have died out by now. What were you going to do, Johnny? Strike me with a zoom punch? Maybe an overdrive?”

The words were taunting and cold, and sent a shiver down Gyro’s spine as they crashed down around him.

“Hamon gave me some trouble years ago,” Dio said dryly, cocking his head to the side. “But it matters little now. I don’t have to touch you. Diego, get Johnny and Gyro to the ground and tie them up.”

He had thought he hallucinated it as Diego approached. The slight hesitation in his step, the way his hand faltered as he rose it to grab Johnny. But then, in a quiet voice, Diego whispered to Johnny and Gyro, and he heard it. He heard the tremor in his voice as he spoke.

“Come on, mate. Don’t make this harder on yourself right now.”

He’s doubting himself.

Wordlessly, Gyro set Johnny down on the floor and sat next to him, pointedly avoiding Diego’s eyes as he furnished ropes from a duffel bag and tied their wrists. He had tied up Gyro’s legs, but not Johnny’s; Gyro shook his head bitterly at the observation. When he was finished, he did not look Dio in the eye as he spoke.

“When’s the last time you, you know,” he said as he tapped at the side of his neck. “Was it recent?”

Dio paused, eyeing Diego carefully before giving a small shrug.

“Ah. Not for a couple days. Perhaps I should, if this is to lead to a confrontation. I learned years ago to never underestimate a Joestar, and if Hamon’s in the cards I would do well to not start now. What do you think, little pet? Should I go find something to—”

“—Do whatever you want,” she snapped, glaring at him. “Just leave me the fuck out of it. Once we get back to LA, I’m fucking quitting. I’m done.”

She stormed up the stairs and vanished, slamming the basement door shut behind her. The sound of angry footsteps fell heavy on the ceiling as they moved toward the opposite end of the cabin. Chuckling, Dio watched her go, Diego’s eyes trained on the ceiling as he frowned.

Then, Dio followed; shifting his weight awkwardly where he stood, Diego went after them.

***

8:38pm

Presented with the opportunity to do something in Dio’s absence, you threw open the door to the room you had claimed for yourself twenty minutes after Dio had left and you were sure he was gone, and found yourself face-to-face with Diego.

“You’re going to help them,” he said softly, gesturing toward the basement door with his thumb. “Aren’t you?”

Diego was the most disappointing part of this all. He had almost grown on you earlier in the day, and you had solely levied your anger at Dio until he had revealed on the way to the cabin that it was Diego who had hatched the plan in the first place. At that, you had written him off entirely. Now, you had to restrain yourself from screaming at the kid or smacking him in the face.

This is all your goddamn fault.

“Go ahead and tell Dio when he gets back,” you snapped, shoving past him and down the hall. “But I’m not going to have their deaths on my shoulders.”

He caught up to you quickly, grabbing your arm and turning you to face him before you had reached the basement.

“Look, just—just wait, will you? You’ll need these.” Fishing in his coat pocket, he held up two cellphones; one in a sleek baby blue case made of rubber, the other in a jewel toned purple case of hard plastic decked out in green and gold glitter. “I doubt Gyro and Johnny remember Joseph or Caesar’s phone numbers.”

He stepped away and let you go, shooting you an expectant look and gesturing to the doorknob with his free hand. “Well? Are you opening it or not?”

Recalling how Diego had suggested Dio go find someone to feed off not half an hour before, you felt your jaw slacken as you pieced it all together.

He bought us time. Holy shit, he bought us time.

You could not disguise the shock in your voice. “What are you doing?”

“Proving I’m not irredeemable. Now move, who knows when Dio will be back.”

Giving yourself no time to ask about Diego’s sudden change of heart, you nodded and threw the door open, the two of you charging down the narrow steps leading to the cabin’s basement. Under your breath, you spoke to Diego, anxiety rising in your throat like vomit.

“How are we going to do this?”

“Dunno,” Diego responded tersely. “But whatever we do, it’s got to be quick.”

At the sight of Diego, Gyro’s jaw dropped, and beside him Johnny gave a small smile. In it held the unshakable knowledge of someone that had just been proven right, almost smug, and he looked away from Diego to hide it.

“You really were having second thoughts. Johnny, I told you.”

Brushing it off, Diego rolled his eyes.

“Here,” he muttered, handing you their phones and walking over to the two. Crouching down beside them, he loosened the ropes at their wrists. “I’ll have to tie you back up after you both send your texts. Keeping up appearances and all that, you understand.”

“I don’t at all,” Gyro said, somewhat stunned. “Her, I get why she wanted to help us. Not you.”

“If you’re dead I can’t prove I’m better than you, now can I?”

Johnny smirked. “Knew it.”

Once their hands had been freed, you handed them both their phones and stepped back, both you and Diego keeping your eyes trained on the ceiling, straining to hear the faintest sound that would alert you to Dio’s presence. Quietly, enough for Gyro and Johnny to not hear, you whispered to Diego.

“You did the right thing. I’m proud of you.”

“Oh, shut up,” Diego whispered back as he pursed his lips to fend off the smile that threatened to creep over them.

Johnny looked up, his expression one of pure determination. “What’s the address?”

Diego answered before you had opened your mouth, and with a resolute nod both Johnny and Gyro began typing.

“Sent,” Gyro said first, and Johnny followed with a nod. He had kept typing, not bothering to look up when Gyro spoke. Once he had finished and sent another text, he looked up at you.

“I told my dad you and Diego helped us. That should get them off your backs when they come here. They should be here in two hours, he says.”

From the ground Diego stiffened, perking his head up. Then he stood, his eyes wide, tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth as he swiveled toward the entrance of the basement. All eyes fixed on him as he turned back, he moved his lips slowly, soundlessly, emphatically pointing up to the ceiling and nodding toward the door.

“He’s back,” he mouthed. “Hurry up and hand over your phones.” 

Within moments Diego had crouched down to hastily tie their bonds before snatching the phones up and stuffing them into his pocket. Then, looking directly at Gyro, he mouthed one word as he stood: “sorry.”

With a sharp raise of his leg, Diego landed a swift kick to the man’s gut. 

“That,” he said loudly, “is for calling a Brando “trash.” Learn your place, Zeppeli. And you, don’t show a Joestar sympathy. This is what they all deserve. You’ve no idea the disrespect they’ve put my family through, and you’d do well to remember who you work for.”

“Figlio de puttana,” Gyro wheezed, doubling over on the ground.

“I—sorry,” you did your best to sound meek, catching on quickly. “I just feel like this can be settled differently.”

Diego shot you a brief look of approval. “This matter doesn’t concern you, so how you feel is irrelevant. Your sole purpose is to ensure the success of the Brando family. Are we quite clear?”

“I wouldn’t say that’s her sole purpose,” Dio drawled from the door. “But I appreciate the vigor, Diego. Rather inspired, if not a bit crass in execution.”

“You’re back,” he said briskly, looking to the door with feigned boredom. “Good. I caught her down here trying to help them. Said she “felt sorry for them,” she wanted to help them escape.”

What the hell, bastard? I was just starting to root for you.

Dio’s eyes met yours, his lips drawn into a faint smile. “I expected nothing less, given our earlier conversation.”

You said nothing, a lump forming in your throat as Dio gently shook his head. “Diego, keep an eye on them. Upstairs, little pet.”

Standing rooted to the spot, you shot Diego a hateful glare, hoping he had managed to develop some sort of telepathy and discerned what you were screaming to him in his head: I am going to kick your ass for this.

He kept his face smooth, though his eyes held in them his silent response: Just go with it.

“Now,” Dio said softly, beckoning you forward.

Haltingly, you walked up the steps, Dio wrapping an arm around your shoulders and leading you from the basement once you had crossed the threshold onto the first floor. Guiding you toward your room, he was silent, focused straight ahead as he shepherded you inside and closed the door.

“Exactly how long did it take,” he said quietly while he let you go, his gaze inscrutable as he watched you. “For Diego to fold?”

“What?”

“You know,” sighing, Dio crossed over to the bed and lay down, propping himself up on the pillows with one elbow as he recliner back. “For someone who grew up in such close proximity to Hollywood, you’re quite terrible at acting. Worse than Diego. So how long after I left did he hand over their cellphones?”

“He didn’t,” you lied on the spot; Diego’s change of heart was not something worth punishing the kid over, no matter how he had tossed you to the wolves to deal with the consequences. The idea that he had done it knowing Dio would show you more kindness had occurred to you when he had looked at you as you left, and to his credit he did not appear to be wrong. “I texted Joseph myself.”

Dio patted the space on the bed next to him, the look on his face quite clear that you had no other option but to take it. Swallowing down your anger and disdain, you walked toward the bed and sat next to him, the close proximity enough to set your teeth on edge as hate vibrated through every atom in your body.

I’m packing my shit the minute we get back. Fuck him. No amount of money is worth this shit.

“Noble of you to still protect him. In anyone else it would be a quality I found utterly insufferable, but from you it’s rather entertaining. How long do you plan on keeping up the charade, I wonder? You owe Diego nothing, and he would sooner throw you under a bus than push you out if its way.”

There was something in his tone, something placating and soothing despite the words it had been layered over, that made you relent. “He’s a kid, Dio. He’s like nineteen.”

How the hell does he do that? 

“And you think I’m angry with him for showing some shred of morality and will harm him for it, don’t you?”

Dio shook his head. “Feel free to relieve yourself from the burden of that fear, I’m not angry. I left knowing full well how it would play out. Shall I let you in on a secret, (Y/N)?”

He grinned, his teeth glittering like polished ivory in the moonlight filtering from the window. “I have no desire at all to kill Gyro nor Johnny. I never did. Their deaths are of no use to me, and it would be more of a headache than it’s worth to kill them. But the threat of doing so would bring Joseph out of hiding, and that is what I desire most. I merely used the mess Diego made to create the opportunity.”

Do I look fucking stupid to you? We both know you’re lying. But why are you lying?

“What happens when Joseph comes here?”

Dio’s gaze hardened. “Nothing that you need to worry about.”

The hidden truth in his words seeped into your blood like black ice, clear and treacherous and cold. He may not have meant to kill Gyro and Johnny, but that did not mean blood would not be spilled.

Oh. That’s why. More murder.

“So instead of killing them, you’re going to kill an old man.”

“Perhaps, if it comes to it. I won’t bore you with old history as to why I would have to, but to be quite honest, I’d rather not. I’m quite bored of having my fate be inextricably linked to the Joestar family, and the death of someone like Joseph Joestar is a bit too high profile for my liking.”

“Then spare him,” you said with a withering glare. You were getting tired of him rather quickly now that you had exhausted your patience.

“Would it please you if I did?”

It was a question that caught you both by surprise, Dio’s lips parting slightly as his eyebrows raised upward, then brought back down and knotted together. You could practically see the cogs in his brain turning as he did his best to work out why he had said it, his mouth now drawn into a thin line as he stared out the window for a long moment. His features drawn into sharp concentration, he turned back to you, a curious intensity to his stare that made you shrink beneath it.

“I make far too many exceptions to my nature to please you,” he murmured. “Perhaps I’m more intrigued by you than I allow myself to admit.”

What the hell does that mean?

The admission had taken you aback, but you would be damned if you let him know it. “That doesn’t make you any less reprehensible to me.”

With a smirk that—to your mounting confusion—appeared almost forced, Dio looked toward the door. “Keep telling me how much I inspire loathing in you, it gives me incentive.”

“To what?”

Dio did not answer, and for once you were glad. The entire interaction had left you stupefied and annoyed, gently ebbing away at the previously impenetrable resolve you had built to hate him. Instead he rose from the bed, motioning for you to stay as he walked to the door and slipped out of the room, closing it door behind him with a soft thud.

***

9:01pm

Standing outside the door in an effort to collect himself, Dio wondered—not for the first time—if his century of imprisonment in the Atlantic had rendered him clinically insane. 

“Would it please you?” What the hell was that? Why did I say that?

A wave of revulsion overcame him and he suppressed a convulsive shudder, a tight frown contorting his lips. 

What saccharine, insipid little demon had possessed him to think something so utterly embarrassing and ridiculous, let alone speak it aloud? Dio was not a creature of sentiment, nor one of fond whispers and sweet nothings; he was a man that brought villages to their feet and people to hysteria and terror. And still, he was preening and crooning over some pathetic human in some tackily decorated cabin as if it were completely natural for him to do so.

But the words he had spoken aloud were not what had weighed on his tongue. No, what was most uncomfortable about it all was what he had almost said to her before he decided to leave, lest he find himself acting ever more so the fool.

To win you over, he had almost said.

It would have been fine, had he said it in a situation where the outcome proved advantageous to him. Winning over a particularly cunning opponent, seducing a kill, or coaxing a rather powerful figure or Stand user into his web, those were situations where it was perfectly acceptable to voice such asinine platitudes of affection. There, he was fine with resorting to charisma and charm.

But her? What did he have to gain from her? A pair of eyes during the day? He could always find another. She was expendable, indistinguishable in a lineup of everyone he had ever fucked. 

And yet she was not.

He resented her wide-eyed idealism, her stubborn determination to stay firmly within the realm of such paltry notions of morality, her unflinching desire to be good. Every time she opened her mouth to scold him he was caught between daydreaming about plunging his fingers into the pulsing vein in her throat or shoving his cock in her mouth just to shut her up. But then she would laugh at some bawdry remark he would throw her way just to gauge her reaction, and he would find himself staring at the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed, or feel something akin to a knife at his chest prying him open when she would stand too close to him. It had been most prominent the day Diego had arrived, standing in such close proximity to her in the closet while ready to fend Diego off; even then, it had left him perplexed and disgusted.

The woman utterly vexed him and entrapped him in equal measure, he had decided; the curse of being enchanted by pretty things. In his enchantment he had given her everything someone could desire in exchange for her service: a beautiful mansion, limitless wealth at her disposal, offers of designer clothing and exotic cars, and still she continually she tested him at every turn. First it was over that detestable husband and wife, then Johnny and Gyro—that one, he still could not make sense of, had she not grasped that they were following her and Diego with the intent to do the exact same thing?—and now he had been hoodwinked into agreeing to spare the life of Joseph Joestar, of all people. Dio Brando, affording kindness to a Joestar for the sake of a human woman. It would have been laughable, were it not ceaselessly infuriating.

Worse still, he had made concession after concession to make her happy, or at the very least less angry with him. As loath as he was to admit it, her words had cut through to him, her scathing diatribe of hate gnawing at his throat like some disgusting dull-toothed creature gnashing its teeth at its kill. Did she not see all that he had done for her? Did she not see that he defied his very nature time and time again for her? How her disdain wounded him, when all he had done was attempt to keep her in comfort?

Why did it bother him so much that she did not see that?

“God,” he groaned, throwing himself to the couch. “What is wrong with me?”

Instinctively his hand closed over the star-shaped birthmark on his shoulder and he fixed his glare upward to the heavens.

“This is your doing, isn’t it? This body is bestowing upon me the most loathsome traits of your character out of revenge. That has to be it.”

The door to the basement opened, Diego regarding him with apprehension once he had registered his presence.

“Who are you talking to?”

“No one,” Dio answered, more sharply than he had intended. Before he had viewed him as little more than another pawn to move across the chessboard until he served his purpose. Now he hated the boy immensely; not only had Diego gotten him into this mess with the Joestar and Zeppeli boys, the sly little digs about taking her to restaurants and shopping, how delightful her company was, they had incensed Dio far more than he was willing to admit. The sight of him alone now was enough to make his blood boil.

He had to get him out.

“Go back down to the basement, give them back their phones, and untie them. I’ll meet you in a moment. I’ve decided on a way to resolve this that will be in the best interest of us all.”

“Really?” Diego paused, his gaze flicking over to the hallway. “And what is that?”

“We’re brokering a truce with the Joestar clan. For now.”

“Why do I get the feeling that it was her idea?”

Dio sat up, the glare in his eye nothing short of murderous. “If you are not headed down those steps in the next three seconds I will skin you as you breathe and fashion you into a belt. Go.”

“Right,” Diego said with a nod, quickly disappearing back into the basement. Sinking back into the couch, he glared up at the ceiling.

The things I do for you, little pet.

With a bitter sigh, Dio stood and walked over to the basement door, bit back his pride and threw it open, doing his best to appear unbothered as he walked down the steps to meet Diego, Johnny and Gyro below.

Chapter Text

Diego was seated on the floor, engaged in deep conversation with Gyro and Johnny; Johnny was nodding intently, while Gyro listened with his head cocked to the side, his eyes glued to his phone as he typed. Dio had caught the tail end of the conversation—he was talking to Johnny about the prospect of a truce. At the sound of his arrival Diego abruptly trailed off, pointing to the pile of rope that lay beside him.

He chose to ignore him. Directing his attention to Johnny, Dio remained as impassive as he could manage. “Exactly what would ensure that the arrival of your father won’t end in bloodshed?”

Preferably his.

“Well,” the boy spoke in a slow, southern drawl, glancing up at the ceiling. “For starters, not kidnapping his son.”

So this is how it’s going to be, then. Snarky little bastard.

“Had you not tailed my assistant to my home with the intent to do the same thing, I would not have.” He did his best to sound affable, biting back the slew of withering insults that threatened to slip off his tongue. “We’re past that point.”

“Fair,” Johnny said with a nod. “You could’ve also not murdered his grandfather and stole his body after you killed him.”

Diego looked up at that, his stare immediately honing in on the thin scar threading its way around Dio’s neck as horror bloomed across his features. 

He gave a quick, dismissive shrug. “I needed a body, he was already dead.”

“Or burn down the Joestar mansion, or resurrect Tarkus and Bruford, or take over Windknight’s Lot. Y’know, did it ever occur to you that a truce might not be possible?”

This is beneath me. I should kill them all tonight.

The sound of shouting and a heavy fist against wood cut through the quiet and Dio looked toward its source, the star on his shoulder burning like hellfire as it called out to the man above. Joseph had arrived, and he had brought others that shared his blood.

Starting with her and Diego.

***

At half past ten the door of the cabin shook beneath the weight of a heavy strike, the old wood groaning as it bowed against its hinges. The sudden force of it jolted you upward from your bed, startling you into action as you rose to your feet.

Following the blow, a muffled voice rang out in the darkness.

“DIO,” it roared, a gruff baritone touched by life and age. “GIVE ME BACK MY SON OR I’LL RIP YOUR HEAD OFF THAT BODY WITH MY BARE HANDS!”

That’s gotta be Joseph, you thought to yourself as you left the room, the door shaking from the brunt of another blow. But what hundred year old dude can nearly break down a door like that?

Opening the front door, your mouth fell open in shock; there clearly had to have been a mistake somewhere, there was no way that this man could have been Joseph Joestar. With his age in mind you had expected someone frail, stooped over, tiny spectacles slipping down the bridge of his nose as he spoke in a feeble voice. But at the door stood a man that appeared to be in his sixties at the least that rivaled Dio in both height and build, his mouth drawn into a hard line, one muscular arm poised to strike the door yet again. Streaks of grey underscored the deep brown of his hair and beard, eyes like emeralds fixed forward in a hard stare.

He paused, raising an eyebrow as confusion clouded his features. It was clear he had expected the door to be opened by someone eye-level to him; blinking, he glanced around before looking down at you and flashing a winning smile.

“Caesar,” he called over his shoulder, “I think we have the wrong house! All I’ve found is a pretty lady!”

In the distance, a man with greying blonde hair rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he quickly brought a hand to his face; beside him stood someone markedly younger, no less than thirty, his expression one of stoic annoyance as he brought the brim of his hat down over his eyes.

“Jiji,” the younger man replied in an annoyed voice as he lifted a Polaroid photo from the pocket of his long, white coat. “This is the exact home your spirit photography showed. It’s the same address Gyro and Johnny gave us. That’s his assistant.”

“Wait, really?” Joseph cocked his head to the side. “I expected someone more evil looking.”

“And I expected someone more decrepit,” you said dryly before you could stop yourself. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

He let out a loud guffaw, clapping a large gloved hand down on your shoulder. “You’re funny,” he boomed.

Then his expression grew serious, his eyes steeling into resolve.

“Where’s Dio?”

“Right here.” Dio’s voice cut through the dark cabin and he stepped into view, his expression bored. “I’ve been wondering when you would shamble your way over here, Joseph. But you look bit spry for someone who’s just celebrated his one-hundred-and-first birthday, don’t you?”

Casting a lazy glance over Joseph’s form, he smirked. “You can withdraw your Stand and Hamon. I have no interest in fighting or killing you. Your son is downstairs, as is Gyro. Safe and sound, no hair on their heads out of place. They’ll be coming up at any moment.”

Joseph’s expression was shrewd. “Avdol was right, then. You have a Stand.”

“Avdol? I remember meeting him in Cairo. Not surprising that he’s one of your associates. But he is correct. I do,” Dio was smug as he uncrossed his arms, putting one hand on his hip as he sized up Joseph. “And I’m sure you’ve noticed by now that I haven’t brought it out.”

“Why?”

“I wish,” Dio drawled, throwing up his hands in a flippant display of surrender, “to negotiate a truce. You have one other person in that car, don’t you? Bring him out. Let’s talk.”

***
10:40pm

The cabin had already felt far too full; now, it felt claustrophobic. Once Diego and Gyro had sidestepped out of the basement door, each of them supporting Johnny as they carried him up, it had rounded out to nine people crammed into the living room. Standing behind the couch were the man in the hat and someone with the most elaborately styled pompadour you had ever seen—he looked to be only slightly younger, dressed in a lavender sweater and dark jeans. On the couch sat Joseph, the blonde, and Gyro, Johnny beside the couch in his wheelchair.

You were sat on the opposite couch directly across from Gyro. Diego ended up next to you, his features drawn into a sharp display of guilt and remorse as he stared unblinkingly at the coffee table. To your right, Dio lounged in an overstuffed chair, one leg crossed over the other with his elbow bent over the armrest, his index finger resting on his temple. 

“You have the audacity to propose a truce? After all you’ve done? Give us one good reason not to kill you,” Joseph said finally, the two men standing behind him stonefaced.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Dio in an airy tone, a playful grin on his lips. “Especially given the events that have transpired over the course of the evening. Nonetheless, I assure you I’m quite serious about a truce.”

Silently, Gyro slipped his phone out of his jacket and bent his head down, typing quickly before coming to a stop. Beside you, Diego shifted his weight and pulled his cellphone from his back pocket, tilting the screen away from you and giving Gyro a strange look while he typed.

“You kidnapped my son,” Joseph glowered at Dio, his voice tight with fury. “You awakening your Stand has put my daughter’s life in danger. You killed my grandfather and stole hi—”

“—Reciting the list of grievances you’ve held against me does nothing for the conversation, Joseph, though I do apologize about your daughter. That shouldn’t be a problem, however. Your son here,” he gestured to the man with the pompadour. “He can heal her with his Stand.”

Joseph’s mouth hung open. “How do you know about Josuke’s Stand?”

“I have my ways,” Dio replied dismissively. “I know your Stand, Hermit Purple, possesses the ability to create spirit photography and is rooted in divination. You—Josuke, correct?”

He pointed to the man with the pompadour, who nodded, glaring at Dio all the while.

“Josuke Higashikata. Your Stand is Crazy Diamond. It can heal people that are near the brink of death, in addition to proficiency in close range combat. And you. Jotaro Kujo.”

The sneer he sported as his gaze shifted to the hulking man in the white coat was unmistakable; for whatever reason, it was evident that he had viewed Jotaro as the biggest threat. “Your Stand, Star Platinum, is almost unrivaled in its abilities. Your mother is the one whose Stand is killing her, isn’t she?”

All of this, you had watched with mounting bewilderment as Jotaro’s jaw tightened, the only reaction he gave.

“You’ve been keeping tabs on us this entire time,” Joseph said slowly, “haven’t you?”

Dio nodded. “From the moment I knew the Joestar clan had survived, yes.”

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. Curiosity piqued by Gyro and Diego’s absorption into their phones and grateful for the opportunity to be distracted, you tilted your phone halfway out of your coat pocket and spared a glance to check your notifications. It was a single text from a number you did not recognize, one whose owner became readily apparent as you caught Gyro grinning from the corner of your eye.

Are you a betting woman, signorina?

Sneaking out your phone, you replied, intrigued by the question.

Depends on the bet. Why?

“I have little leverage to bargain with,” Dio said lightly. “I’ll admit that. But if I’m to be honest, I’m quite content with my place in this new world. I would rather not lose it.”

“No,” the blonde beside Gyro was quiet, the faintest hint of an accent on his tongue. “Even without your history, anything created by the Stone Masks remains a threat and must be destroyed. My grandfather gave his life to fight alongside Jonathan and ensure that—”

“—So you’re Caesar Zeppeli,” Dio grinned as he addressed the man. “Interesting. Exactly how do you plan on destroying me, by blowing bubbles? A power as useless as your grandfather’s wine glass. He was a badly dressed charlatan that died for nothing, for what it’s worth.”

Caesar opened his mouth in indignation, and beside him Gyro returned his attention to his phone.

I bet you that this meeting will end without a truce and your boss getting punched in the face. If I lose, I owe you $20.

“I must say,” Dio murmured, shooting you a curious, brief glance before turning his attention to Joseph. “I was under the impression that the Joestar line and its cohorts would be above such unscrupulous behaviors as threatening a man that seeks no quarrel. I’m disappointed. As I’m sure Jonathan would have been, too.”

“Pezzo di merda,” Caesar muttered under his breath as Gyro smirked, sneaking another glance toward you. Frowning, Joseph eyed Dio closely.

“After everything Granny Erina told me and knowing what you’ve done, it’s kind of hard to be generous.”

“Erina, that country girl? I remember her quite well.” Dio sounded almost fond, his expression wicked. “Great kisser, if memory serves.”

“She didn’t say the same about you,” Joseph retorted. “She said she washed her mouth out with muddy water just to forget what your tongue felt like.”

Reading Gyro’s text from the corner of your eye, you suppressed a scoff as you covertly typed. 

Nah. I don’t make bets I know I’m going to lose, and I don’t have $20 to give you.

Gyro beamed.

How about a date, then?

From beside you, Diego shifted in his seat, his mouth twisted into a deep frown. “Hold on,” he said quietly as Dio’s smirk slipped into a glower, malice bright in his stare.

“Dio’s right. He hasn’t got much to offer you lot, and the vendetta runs deep. But we do.”

“Wait, what?” You looked up from your phone and to Diego; Dio raised an eyebrow, falling into silence as he settled into guarded calm.

“Gyro and Johnny are here because of me. She did nothing wrong, aside from have poor judgment when it comes to employers. We both live with Dio, we can offer something you need: an eye on him. Make sure he isn’t scheming or using this to his benefit. I can relay information to Johnny and Gyro, and they can send it to you.”

Dio remained tight-lipped as he eyed Diego, danger glowing devil red in his eyes. Joseph gave Caesar a long look, then cast a sweeping gaze across the living room before his eyes came to rest on you.

“He has a fair point,” Joseph mused. “They could. And Johnny did say that they were the ones who made sure nothing happened to him or Gyro.”

Caesar looked contemplative; next to him, Gyro watched you expectantly. Josuke appeared to actively consider the idea, whereas Jotaro merely scowled.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Johnny piped up. “Diego may be a rat, but I think he showed he isn’t too far gone. Who knows, maybe they’re rubbing off on Dio.”

“Do you really think I can heal Holly?” Josuke was quiet as he looked at Dio. “Will that work?”

Watching Dio closely, you sent one last text before putting your phone into your pocket.

All right, Gyro, I’ll take you up on that bet.

Gyro tucked his phone away and leaned back, smirking. 

“I don’t know,” he said idly. “Dio could be lying.”

Dio ignored Gyro, focusing on Josuke. “I don’t see how it couldn’t. Did you not save your friend when he had nearly been killed by Yoshikage Kira?”

“I—I did,” Josuke answered, taken aback; it was clear he did not expect Dio to hold such information. “I healed Okuyasu.”

“Good grief,” Jotaro muttered. “Jiji, don’t tell me you trust this guy?”

“I don’t,” Joseph’s answer was swift. “But I don’t see why Diego would lie to us. You work directly with Dio, though, so you’d know him better than we would. What do you think? Should we at least consider it?”

He was speaking to you.

The weight of Dio’s stare fell heavy on your shoulders, and you nodded, still not fully sure how your life had gotten to this point. Joseph and the others fell quiet, and Dio gave you a small nod of approval. So clearly could you hear the unspoken words within it, it felt like he had sent them directly into your brain. Very good, little pet.

“I still don’t buy it,” Jotaro glared at Joseph. “Why are we even wasting our time? Jiji, this is Dio Brando we’re talking about.”

“Wait. How about this?” Diego spoke up and Jotaro’s stare shot toward him, his eyes like polished sea glass held in front of a flame. “You said your mom is dying because of…Dio? The Stands? Right? Have Josuke try to heal her, and if that doesn’t work then there’s nothing else to consider. Unless Dio can figure out another way to heal her?”

“To healing Holly? I can, yes.”

Jotaro looked toward Joseph, who shrugged. “I’ll be honest, there’s something in my gut telling me not to trust it, but they did save Johnny and Gyro. And we didn’t think about Josuke using Crazy Diamond. Give us time to think about it while we see if this works with Holly?”

“I have all the time in the world,” Dio said with a smirk. “Feel free to think on it.”

At that Joseph rose to his feet, motioning to the others. “Let’s go, then.”

Dio leaned forward as they filtered out, his stare leveled at you. “See them out, would you? I need to speak with Diego alone.”

“Okay,” you said with a nod; there was something in his voice that told you it was not a request, and you did not want to risk falling into hot water with Dio. Rising from your seat, you followed them out, standing behind Josuke as he pushed Johnny. While you shut the door behind you, you saw Dio’s expression harden as he stood, Diego’s posture stiffening in preemptive defiance.

Then you were outside, standing with the Joestar Group, Joseph watching you curiously.

“Dio sent you out here?”

“Asked me to walk you out, yeah.”

“That’s…charitable of him,” Caesar said hesitantly, running a hand through his greying hair. 

“We don’t know if we can trust her,” Jotaro said in a low voice. “I don’t like this.”

“She hates him,” Gyro chimed in gleefully. “She told me so herself.”

“That’s true,” Johnny echoed. “I was there.”

Jotaro said nothing, his features mask-like as he studied you.

Then he spoke, his tone scrutinizing. “Why stay?”

“It’s a long story,” you said faintly, scratching the back of your head.

“Well, you don’t have to tell it,” Joseph grinned at you, mischief bright in his eyes. “But come with me, I’ve got something to ask you.”

Not eager to return to the cabin, you fell into lockstep beside Joseph.

“You heard Dio mention Hamon, didn’t you? Do you know what that is?”

“No,” you answered truthfully. “But I know Johnny almost used it on Dio.”

“He did?” Joseph looked proud, taking a backward glance toward Johnny and Josuke. “He’s a smart kid. And he’s partially why I’m bringing this up. What you and Diego did for him and Gyro took a lot of guts, and it’s not something I take lightly, so I want to offer something in return. Hamon is life energy, and when you learn to channel that through your breathing you can use it to fight. There are a lot of benefits to Hamon, too. Like having a longer lifespan, the fact that it’s lethal to vampires, and it slows down the aging process.”

So that’s why him and Caesar look so young. Damn, I just thought he had a good plastic surgeon.

Then you remembered what he had slipped in there, a wide smile on his face as he had said it.

“Lethal to vampires? Really?” 

“Yep. And Caesar and I are the last living Hamon masters in the world. We can teach you, if you want.”

“I can’t go to New York, or I would,” you had said it to be polite, keen to drop the subject. The idea was intriguing, but it was dwarfed by the fear of incurring Dio’s wrath the moment you had tried to use it. You had not forgotten the way he had reacted when you had suggested turning him in. 

Joseph gave a booming laugh as the two of you nearer Gyro’s car. “You wouldn’t have to. I’m moving here. My wife passed in 2002, and once my daughter left for college New York became pretty lonely. But she just graduated from UCLA, so I’ll be closer to her.”

“The sick one? Holly?”

“No,” he shook his head, his eyes shining with pride. “Her name is Shizuka. Holly has been staying in Florida with Jotaro, but we brought her with us to keep an eye on her condition.”

He grew serious, stopping in his tracks to put a hand on your shoulder. Looking you dead in the eye, he spoke in a low voice. “We’re all at Caesar’s house for the holidays. Think about it.”

“Okay,” you said brightly; it was forced, and more so to placate the man than out of actively considering the proposal. Beaming, Joseph nodded and bounded off toward a parked car at the end of the driveway, Caesar and Jotaro already waiting. Behind you, the sound of footsteps crunching through gravel grew closer, and you turned to find Gyro picking up his pace and heading toward you with a crisp twenty dollar bill clenched in his fist.

“I’m a graceful loser,” he said with a breezy smile. “Here’s your prize, bambina.”

Bambina? That’s new.

“No you aren’t.” Johnny looked up from his wheelchair as he and Josuke passed by, shaking his head. “Don’t believe him, he’s lying.”

“Shut it, Johnny.”

Intentionally slowing his pace as he unlocked the car for Josuke and he began to help Johnny in, he lowered his voice. “Let me take you out anyway.”

Folding the bill into your pocket, you looked to Gyro. “You’re determined.”

“Johnny’s right, I’m not a graceful loser at all. And I can’t help it. I see a beautiful woman, I do my best to win her heart.”

“I’ll think about it,” you said with a small smile, turning back to Gyro knowing full well you had no intention of taking him up on the offer.

I’m just full of false promises, tonight, aren’t I?

With a wink, he got into the car, and you headed back to the cabin, Dio’s figure a looming silhouette in the doorway.

***
11:22pm

On the surface, he had appeared calm and collected. A perfect picture of contentment, one shoulder against the gnarled wood frame of the front door, in every sense Dio appeared to be a man savoring his victory. 

But you had lived with him long enough to know better. 

At his most restful, he was still a rattlesnake in the underbrush waiting to strike. That effortless drop of his shoulders when he stood straight and ushered you inside, it was little more than to distract you from the glare in his eye—the final courtesy an executioner could afford his charge. The nigh imperceptible set of his jaw was as telling as the faint rise of the vein in his temple, the hand running through the waves of his long blonde hair an effort to keep up appearances. 

He was furious, and you had absolutely no idea why.

The sound of two engines roaring to life heralded in four bright spotlights shining straight into the living room, illuminating the space in blinding fluorescent white. Taking a look around while he shut the door behind you, you noticed almost instantly that his counterpart was clearly absent. The image of Dio towering over him still fresh in your mind, you looked over to him and motioned toward the empty space.

“Where’s Diego?” 

“He went to bed.” The gentleness in his voice stirred faint alarm in you, one that felt warranted and out of left field at the same time. Well aware of his eyes boring into your back, you approached the door at the start of the hallway and knocked gently.

“What?” Diego snapped from behind the wood.

“Uh, just wanted to let you know I’m back and they’re gone.”

More lightly, though still withering, he spoke; he had mistaken you for Dio. “Why would I care about either of those things?”

Well, at least he’s okay.

“I guess the talk went well,” you said quietly to Dio as you left the hallway, sitting down on the couch and massaging at your temple. The past twenty-four hours had been nothing short of confusing, and exhaustion was creeping in disguised as a headache. 

“I suppose.” Dio walked around the couch slowly, stopping right in front of you. “Maybe not as well as your conversation with Gyro Zeppeli. What exactly were you two texting about the entire time?”

“We made a bet,” you answered in a dry voice, fishing out the twenty dollar bill from your pocket. “He bet me twenty bucks that this would’ve ended in a fight and not a truce. I won.”

“I see. And did anyone else talk to you?”

At that it became clear that he had not merely sent you out to speak to Diego, and you rolled your eyes. Of course he wanted me out there to try to get information out of me. Why am I even surprised?

“Not really. Just Joseph.”

“And what did he say?”

Bringing up the full extent of the conversation did not seem prudent, given Dio’s temperament. Instead you trimmed the fat, reducing the conversation to its bare bones. “He talked about his family, mostly. Thanked me for helping Gyro and Johnny.”

“Is that all?” The look he had given you plainly said that he knew it was not; not for the first time, you wondered whether or not Dio had supersonic hearing or just happened to be very good at reading people.

“He brought up Hamon, told me what it was and how it works.”

“Did he? Why?” There was an unmistakable edge to his voice now.

“He offered to teach me, I guess? I told him no.”

Whatever shreds of affability Dio had endeavored to maintain went out the window; drawing himself to his full height, his mouth became a hard line and he glared down at you, seamlessly slipping into intimidating anger.

“He what?” 

On any other day this would have been enough to scare you, but you were too emotionally spent to care. “You can relax. Like I said, I told him no. As appealing as learning how to punch you with life energy sounds, I like having not having my throat ripped out.”

Yawning, you shrugged. “Can I go to bed now? Between aiding and abetting a kidnapping, having to sit through drama I don’t know shit about, the Hamon thing, and everything else, I’ve had a long day.”

He stared at you for a long moment in stark silence, giving off the impression of someone that was wrestling with a difficult choice.

Then his arm shot forward and he had seized your wrist, pulling you to your feet.

“Come with me. Now.”

At best, the command was a formality. He did not intend to give you a choice, dragging you toward the basement by the arm. Wrestling in his grip, his hand tightened to the point of pain, and you dug your heels into the floor. The act proved to be little more than an exercise in futility, only serving to send pain throbbing to your knees when your legs buckled under the strength of his pull, the basement door getting closer with far more speed than you had anticipated. Dread pounded like a war drum in your stomach, and Dio’s hand closed over the doorknob. 

In protest, you raised your voice to a shout and thrashed back in his hold. “Let me go, Dio, what the hell—”

“—Shut up,” he growled as he threw the door open hard enough to send it swinging into the stone and back again while he brought you down the stairs. Closing the door and thrusting you into total darkness, he wrangled you by the arm into the center of the room. In the dark you could make out the way his mouth contorted into a scowl, eyebrows knotted together in a fearsome mask of undiluted fury.

“I will only say this once, do you understand? If you ever go off to learn Hamon from those decrepit old bastards or their descendants, I will kill you. I will kill you before you can even draw your first breath of Hamon energy in.”

Incredulity rooted you to the spot, his hand still grasping your wrist. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Seething, you stared up at him. “Did you not hear me? I very clearly said that I told him no. Twice, actually. And why are you even mad? You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”

“Did I?” His voice was lethal, eyes shining bright in the dark of the room. “I did not want to be stuck in this godforsaken cabin, yet here I am. I did not want to have to deal with the Joestars tonight, and that is precisely what I was forced to do.”

He forced you closer, eliminating the space between you to mere inches. “Would you truly like to know why I’m angry? I have quite the list of reasons. The least of which being that in the past twenty-four hours you’ve lied to me, subjected me to your petty little diatribes, and made me look like a fool while sticking me in a situation I had not wanted to be a part of.”

“Diego’s the one—”

“—Diego has been dealt with accordingly. But to be quite honest, while I am not exactly thrilled with him at the moment, his sole fault is that he attempted to use the fact that you were being followed by Gyro and Johnny for his own gain. You do remember that they had been sent to follow you, don’t you? Or did you forget that in the midst of Gyro Zeppeli’s simpering?”

He sneered, disgust highlighting his features as he whispered in your ear. “I’m far more observant than you would like to give me credit for, signorina.”

Indignation scored its way across your cheeks and tongue, narrowing your eyes and curling up your lip. You’d had enough. 

“God, I hate you.” You were nearly shouting now, but you cared little. Shoving at Dio, you renewed your revolt against his hold. “You’re such an asshole. You want to bitch about being stuck in situations you don’t want to be in? I’m stuck living with you!”

“Oh ho,” Dio scoffed, his voice like gasoline poured over flames. “This again? I loved hearing it the first time. Tell me how I’m insufferable and have made your life a living hell while allowing you to live freely in a multimillion dollar mansion and acquiescing to every trivial demand you’ve bestowed upon me. Please. Do so.”

“None of that means anything when you’re having your fucking Animorph grandson chase me around the backyard! Or while you’re brainwashing and humiliating innocent people who don’t deserve it. Or the flirting and groping and leering, which—in case you forgot—counts as sexual harassment since you’re, you know, my boss! And I didn’t even want to work for you!”

“Is that what we’re calling it? Harassment?” A malicious grin settled over his lips and he tucked a hand under your chin. “Let’s talk about how you—in the midst of being in danger while Diego was under the influence of his Stand, no less—were sidling up to me, almost begging for me to take you then and there less than a week ago. Is it only harassment when you’re angry with me?”

Stammering, you did not back down as you eyed him as viciously as you could muster; to look away was to admit he was right, and to admit he was right was suicide.

But he was, and that sent you reeling. That night, some part of you had wanted him. It was the same part that had committed to memory the slope of his nose, the sharp definition of his cupid’s bow and the curl of his eyelashes; how dangerously ethereal he had looked as you were astride him and the way his hair softened the high angle of his cheekbones, a part of you that had refused to give a name out of fear of making it real. In the few times you had allowed it space, it had taught you just how willingly wandering souls freely gave themselves over to the devil.

“I—what the fuck? You know what? Fuck you, Dio.”

Letting go of your wrist and snaking an arm around your waist he dropped his voice low as he pulled you forward, trailing his finger across your jaw while his eyes shone with devilish resolve. “If it means finally getting you to be quiet, gladly.”

The words fell like a threat, one that sent your pulse wild as his gaze slowly moved from your face to your hips. In one swift movement he had brought his lips to your own, effectively silencing you with his kiss. Absent of warmth, it felt like an invasion, an effortless victory that he savored as his arm left your waist. Slowly, almost dangerously gentle, he slipped underneath the hem of your shirt; tracing the curve of your waist, he moved up and to your breast, giving it a rough squeeze and teasing at your nipple with his thumb.

A flurry of emotions waged war within you, spurned on by the silken warmth of his touch and the way it had thrown your body into violent revolt. Rage, derision, shock, annoyance, disgust threatened to consume you in turn. Beneath them all, attraction and lust spilled over like blood hitting pavement, pooling around everything else and threatening to seep in from your core.

Settling squarely on rage, you bit down hard on his bottom lip until you felt your teeth sink past the skin, the taste of rust landing hot on your tongue.

“So violent,” he laughed, a discordant sound absent of mirth as it fell on your ears. He leaned his forehead leaning against yours; anger underscoring the timbre of his voice, he licked at his lip and smiled. “You’re going to pay for that.”

Your conscience had lost the battle between body and mind, lust wrapping its hands around the neck and snuffing it out. 

“Make me, you fucking bastard,” you breathed, hating him and hating yourself for giving in.

“Oh, little pet,” he said softly, taunting and brimming with self-serving amusement as he brought his hands to your shoulders and began lowering you to the ground. “I fully intend to.”

Heart pounding against your sternum to the point of pain, he had brought you to your knees, sending anticipation ricocheting from your throat to your core. The sight his jeans stretched taut over the outline of his cock was enough to alert you to the way your underwear had begun to stick to you, how your pulse had gathered between your legs, but only when he had brought his hands to the fly of his jeans did it fully set in what he had intended for you to do.

Like a puppet, your mouth moved of its own accord, the words that left it spoken without thought. 

“You’re the fucking worst.”

Peeling back the fabric, he left the base of his cock exposed for a moment as he looked down at you, a smirk playing on his lips. He had chosen to go commando; dimly you wondered if he had planned this, then dismissed the thought as he brought it out. You had almost forgotten its size, the sheer length and thickness of it as intimidating as the rest of him, but from your vantage point it managed to seem bigger than you had remembered. 

“You haven’t the slightest idea how right you’re about to be. Why don’t I show you how I’ve dreamt of shutting you up for weeks?”

Taking hold of your jaw and squeezing hard, he pulled it down, opening your mouth with little effort. With a devilish smirk he snaked his hand through your hand and grabbed a fistful, rooting you in place. Using his hold, he brought your mouth down on his dick, a small sigh of satisfaction rattling from his chest as he sank in deeper. Closing your eyes and allowing yourself to give in fully, you closed your lips over him and sucked, squeezing your thighs together in a vain attempt to alleviate the throbbing pulse that had gathered at your center and bringing your hand up to move in tandem with your mouth against his length.

“Oh, no,” he growled, seizing your wrist. “None of that tonight, darling.”

He thrust in deep, thick cockhead striking the back of your throat hard enough to make you gag. Tossing his head back with a soft moan, he continued to bring you down onto him until you reached the point of near-gagging, the taste of him dribbling salty and clear onto your tongue. Breathing through your nose, you let him continue, desperate for something to distract you from the dazzling soreness that had amplified itself at your clit. 

God, I’m actually into this, you thought, wriggling your hips as you bobbed across the length of him, the heartbeat between your legs growing ever more unbearable. Undoing the buttons of your own jeans, you slipped past the waistline of your underwear to find the fabric drenched through, slick and warm with arousal. Bringing your index and middle finger to your clit, you massaged at it in an erratic circle, and Dio gave a breathless laugh.

“Stop,” he commanded softly, pausing long enough to grab your arm and pull your hand away. “You don’t get to enjoy this yet.”

You whined in protest along his cock and he bucked his hips, goading you into silence. Growing heavy and frenetic, he brought you down on him with vigor, his breathing quickly giving way from ragged jumps to rhythmic moans.

“Look up at me.”

Through half-lidded eyes you met Dio’s gaze, a curious battlefield of detestation and tenderness. He grinned, tightening his grip on your hair and pulling you down on him, heat spurting from his twitching cock and down your throat. He held you there as it spilled into your mouth, the volume of it staggering and threatening to make you gag.

“Swallow it,” he ordered, and you forced yourself to obey without gagging. 

“Good girl,” he crooned as he pulled out of your mouth, beckoning you to your feet. “Get undressed and lay back on the bed.”

Daring had seized you and you wiped your mouth, still kneeling. “Make me,” you repeated.

“Must you always be such a brat?”

Smiling wickedly, he lifted you up and navigated through the darkness with ease before throwing you onto the mattress on your back, stripping you bare and forcing your legs apart. Warm and smooth as velvet, Dio traced a teasing path along your folds before his tongue darted into you, tasting you as he moved up to your clit. Lapping and sucking at the spot in a languid pace that sent you to the brink of euphoria, you clenched your fists to ground you, desperate for the sheets to grant you purchase and keep you firmly within reality. Slipping one finger and then another into you, he scissored them out and brought them together before crooking them forward, pressing down at that spot of your arousal with enough force to make you shake. Your hips bucked against his tongue, chasing that feeling it promised to bring you and he grew more ardent, his tongue switching from languid to stupefying dexterity. 

It built quickly, pleasure coiling deep in your belly and threatening to violently scatter like shattered glass. Your breathing little more than ragged gasps, you reached for his hair and he knocked your hand away. Pulling back, he towered over you, lording over his power. 

“I told you,” he said quietly, licking his fingers. “The next time, you would beg for it. So beg.”

No matter how badly you wanted him in that moment, you still did not want to let him win.

“No.”

“Your bratty behavior is only endearing to a point, my darling.”

Hard enough to stun you but gentle enough to not leave a mark, Dio struck you across the cheek.

“Beg.”

“Eat shit.”

A wild gleam danced in his eye and he struck again, adding a bit more force.

“Are you a glutton for punishment?”

I’m starting to think I might be.

“I won’t tell you again. Beg. Tell me how badly you crave me. Tell me you want me eat your pretty little cunt until you’re begging me to stop, that you want me to fuck the disdain out of you, how you want me to reduce you to little more than a battered, drooling mess with my cock.”

God, I’m hopeless.

“Dio,” his name left your tongue as a whine, greatly detracting from the vitriol you had shown not moments before. “Please.”

“Strange. With how often you mouth off, I had assumed you’d be a lot more convincing.”

“Please,” you held his gaze, your breathing wild once you had taken in the way his hair lay disheveled at his shoulders, the terrifying beauty of him enthralling and repulsive all at once. In that moment he was captivating in his danger, loathsome and otherworldly; whether he came from the depths of the Atlantic or Hell, nothing mattered so long as he brought you to back down there with him right then and there. 

A breathless laugh escaped him and he dipped low.

“Can’t you do better than that?”

His tongue flicked teasingly over your clit and angled your hips to meet him in near desperation. Casting a long glance upward at you, gauging your reaction, he held you in place by your thighs and set to work. There was no show to put on for him at his request; he had elicited each begging cry from you with a swipe of his tongue, rutting into the mattress as you rolled your hips against his mouth and grabbed hold of his hair. Drawing back when your breathing grew shallow and harried, he raised an eyebrow.

“One last chance. Beg.”

“Fuck me,” you managed as you struggled to maintain your composure. “For the love of God, fuck me, please.”

“That’s better,” he whispered. “Turn over.”

Clambering onto your hands and knees, Dio seized your hips and pulled, driving himself in to the hilt with a force that left you reeling as each rough thrust sent you jolting forward. Reduced to a panting moan, your body shuddered under the roll of his hips, his cock stretching your walls as it filled you with a not unpleasant ache. You had forgotten how it had felt; he speared you as if it would split you open, and all too readily you succumbed to the promise of his destruction. Moving with him to draw him in deeper, you made no effort to silence the indecent moans that tore themselves from your throat. Taking a fistful of your hair and pulling, he forced your back into a sharper arch, his breath a hiss at your ear.

“You’re perfect like this,” he hissed. “You serve me far better as a quivering little cocksleeve, begging me to fill you.”

He speared you deep, enough to leave you gasping as the tip of his cock grazed your cervix; unrelenting, he kept his pace until you had went weak from the tremors the impact of his thrusts brought, suffocating the volume of your cries as you buried your face into the sheets. He spared you no mercy as fucked you, a loud moan tearing from his throat and he bottomed out, leaving you grasped at the sheets to ground you as the size of him sent your eyes rolling back and your toes curling.

“This,” he grunted, “is what you’re good for. Existing only as my own little whore to do with as I wish.”

“Fuck you,” you gasped. “Bastard.”

Landing a hard smack on your ass, he chuckled. 

“Talk back again. I dare you.”

“I hate you.”

That brought on another smack, harder than the last and forcing you to cry out as pain reverberated down to the marrow of your bones.

“I hate you too,” he whispered. “I loathe you. But you feel so—” he brought you down hard enough to make you scream, punctuating his words with your moans, “—fucking incredible, it almost doesn’t matter.”

He shoved you off of him and onto the bed, turning you over with a rough shove against your hip. Throwing your legs over his shoulders, he fucked into you without reprieve, forcing you into the mattress as the friction against the sheets burned at your back. 

Then he relented, the embodiment of the devil as he smiled.

“Say that this is all you’re good for.”

“No.”

He brought his thumb to your clit, deftly relieving the swollen throb with a gentleness that proved frightening as the promise of release encroached, leaving you stupefied. Paying close attention to your shallowing breath, he gave a teasing roll of his hips in rhythm with his touch. 

“Say it and I’ll let you cum. I know you’re close.”

Biting down on your lip you glared at him, your best efforts to hide the rippling pleasure he had sent through you faltering as they amplified, threatening to pull you under and out to sea.

“I—no, I—oh fuck, Dio, fine,” you gasped, arching back as it climbed toward its apex. “This—t-this is all I’m good for.”

Treacherously sweet, his laughter echoed in the dark and he continued, the way he fucked you while keeping a steady circle over your clit a feat of dexterity in and of itself. In moments it had hit you violently and without warning, the force of your orgasm bringing out a loud cry as it shook through you; he did not pull away, instead continuing as tension coiled at your center like a tightly wound rubber band.

Weakly, you pushed at his hand.

“Dio—Dio, it hurts.”

“It won’t for long,” he taunted, swatting your hand away. “Lie back and take what you begged for.”

In short time, the pain had circled back to pleasure, the bands snapping away one by one until a smaller, though still overwhelming orgasm took hold. At the third, Dio followed closely behind, pulling out quickly enough to grab your hair and position himself over you. In stuttering ropes, his release spilled hot onto your face and neck, a shaking exhale forcing itself past his lips before collapsing onto the bed. Beside him, you lay shaking, your breath ragged and tremulous as it clambered from your lungs, clarity returning to you in one treacherously rising tide. 

I shouldn’t have done that.

The feeling of fabric dropping onto your chest startled you out of your thoughts.

“Clean yourself off.”

Nodding in silence, you wiped at your face and neck—was it a t-shirt? It had felt like one—until you could no longer feel any trace of him on your skin, burying yourself in the sheets when it was over.

Oh God, why did I do that?

“You’re quiet,” Dio stroked your cheek as he peeled the sheets back, amusement clear in his voice. 

He smiled. “Finally. I prefer you like this.”

Glaring hatefully at Dio, you scowled. “I prefer you far the fuck away from me.”

“Yet you’re still here,” he said softly, propping himself up on one elbow as he looked down at you. Trailing his nails over your arm, he raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you? Feel free to get dressed and go to your room.”

“I don’t think,” you spoke haltingly, staring straight up to the ceiling. “My legs work right now or I would. I’m not laying here because I want to.”

Dio laughed outright. “Fair.”

He stood, dressing quickly and grabbing a shirt from his suitcase, stopping to pick up your underwear from the floor. With a gentleness that stood in stark opposition to how forceful he had been, he lifted you up, wordlessly gesturing for you to lift your arms. You did so silently and he tugged the shirt down, sliding on your underwear carefully before putting your coat over your shoulders and lifting you into his arms.

Looking toward the bundle of fabric wadded up at your side, stained pearlescent white, a bitter frown creased at your lips. He had handed you your own shirt.

“I’ll carry you, then.”

Bringing you up the stairs and to your room, he opened the door and walked inside; with a devious grin, he dropped you unceremoniously onto the bed.

“Fucking asshole,” you wheezed, the drop winding you. “Fuck you.”

“Again? Rest first, and I’ll consider it.”

He closed the door, and your phone went off in your coat pocket. Diego had texted you the moment the door had clicked shut. Sparing a quick glance at the time and realizing it was just past midnight, you opened it, embarrassment tingeing your cheeks as you began to read.

Bloody hell, woman, I thought he was murdering you there for a moment. Have you no shame? Or standards? 

Burying yourself in the sheets as dread set in, you groaned, only peripherally aware of the fact that as sore as you were beginning to feel, not once had Dio actually hurt you.

Chapter Text

December 24th

6:36am

He could feel the coming of dawn in his blood.

He could feel it and yet he lie awake, amber eyes staring listlessly at the ceiling, one arm splayed over his head onto the pillows beneath him. The other lay bent over his chest, his fingers absently drumming over a heart that had long since stilled. To his side, his cellphone lay forgotten, the open news article about a museum in Cairo obtaining a sword rumored to have the spirit of Anubis trapped within it searing a pinprick of white light into the pitch black room. Had anyone walked down those damnable narrow steps into the basement, they would think him to be in a state of implacable calm, almost boredom. But one look into his eyes, the sheer confusion and annoyance roiling within their depths, would be enough to clue even the least discerning person into his current frame of mind.

He had not planned for that to happen.

Dio was nothing if not methodical; every movement, every single thing about him was a calculated endeavor, right down to the way he styled his hair. So carefully did he move through this world that even something like sleep was not without purpose—sleep, for over a century something he no longer needed, served merely as a way to quickly pass the time in those hours he was most vulnerable. He was not one to act out of emotion or impulsivity, a lesson that had been taught to him back in that infernal hamlet called Windknight’s Lot. Yet so freely had he lost control, so willingly did he surrender to something so carnal and impetuous, so infuriatingly human.

And he had enjoyed it.

That was not to say he never did; like all other facets of his unending life, sex served a purpose. He was wont to hedonism even as a mere man, and that nature had carried over in his transcendence of humanity. But he had learned to wield it as a weapon, luring those that would sustain him and serve him alike to his bed. 

Still, for the second time, he had not indulged that wanting with purpose.

He had indulged it solely because he wanted to, because he wanted her. So pronounced was the way he had craved her in those moments that he had not even bothered to draw blood, though he knew he needed it. It had been days since Dio had actually fed, his ruse to seek out blood one he had only put on to test Diego’s loyalty—a loyalty he had known from the beginning was nonexistent, his actions only serving as confirmation when he had put his ear to the ground and listened to their whispered conversation in the basement when he was out of range for Diego to pick up on his scent.

In truth, he had abstained from feeding for one reason only: he had every intention of bringing Joseph Joestar here to kill him. A sneaking suspicion had arose in him that he required the blood of Jonathan’s closest descendant to truly bind his body to his will, one that had began to take root when he had been pierced by the Stand Arrow. Like the Lance of Longinus, she had driven its tip into his left side and though it had healed quickly, it did not heal quick enough. While imperceptible by her, it was something that had not went without notice by Dio, and when she had left he had raked his fingernails over the right side of his chest until the flesh was shredded to ribbons, knitting together almost instantaneously. On some molecular, biological level it was clear Jonathan’s will still opposed his own, and draining Joseph would forever quell the echoes of Jonathan’s resistance.

Now here Dio lay, sprawled out on a decidedly uncomfortable mattress, without Joestar blood and thoroughly baffled by his own behavior. 

Was it the hunger that defied his common sense? Or was it as he suspected, that remnant of the will of Jonathan Joestar, forcing into him such shamefully human weakness?

He needed to think clearly, and tonight served as irrefutable proof that around her, he could not. Picking up the phone, he went to his call log, his thumb hovering over her name.

I’ll wake her, call her down here and drain her dry. Purpose or not, she exists as a liability. A distraction from my goals. I’ll grant her the kindness of killing her quickly, at least.

He stared at the screen long enough to where the names began to bleed together, coagulating into one incomprehensible blurred mass across his vision.

But she has served a purpose, hasn’t she? Through her I gained The World. And though she refused the offer to learn Hamon, sending her to do so would give me insight into the Joestar clan and bolster my proximity to Joseph, allowing me endless opportunities to take his blood and bind this body to me once and for all. She also seems to have somewhat of a camaraderie with Diego, which could benefit me when he chooses to defy me. I can even stand to gain from her budding connection to Gyro and Johnny. 

Throwing the phone to the mattress, Dio groaned in frustration.

He could not bring himself to do it.

***

9:15am

Sunlight filtered in through the cheap blinds of the cabin’s bedroom, searing cold against your eyelids as you sat up slowly in bed. A dull ache leadened your legs and back, sending vivid flashbacks of the night before blaring across your mind as you gingerly swept your legs over the bed’s side. Standing, you took note of what was missing—your bra, the soiled t-shirt, your jeans, all of them remained in the basement below with him. With a groan, you ran your fingers through your hair, your scalp tender where Dio had pulled.

Shower. I need a shower. 

Taking great care to move quietly lest you wake Diego—or worse, Dio—you slipped on the closest pair of pajama bottoms and crept toward the bathroom, fumbling as you put towel on the rack before turning on the water. It got hot too quickly, but it did not matter. The heat felt good on your skin. A bitter sigh left you as you washed off and you tilted your head back as if the shower would baptize you, cleanse you of your sins and of the wild look in his eye. But the scalding water did nothing to clean off the memory of the way he had touched you, kissed you; he permeated over you like the steam rising from the shower head, painful and warm and right in all the wrong ways. 

Goddamnit.

It had happened so suddenly that you still could not quite discern how it had happened; more so why, and why you had so readily succumbed. Sure, he was attractive. There was an undeniably monstrous charisma to him, outmatched only by his ego. Divorcing his personality from his looks, he also was not a particularly bad lay, especially when it didn’t end in him sinking his teeth into you. But it was him. Why him?

Why am I such an idiot?

“Oi,” Diego’s voice carried over the sound of the water, still heavy with sleep. “How long are you going to be in there?”

“Not long,” you called, silently cursing yourself. You had hoped he would sleep a little longer, just to avoid the conversation. “I’ll be out in a second, I’m in the shower.”

“’Kay.”

Faintly you could make out the sound of retreating footsteps down the hall, Diego shambling into the living room.

A quiet groan left you and you shut off the water, drying quickly and picking up the clothes from the bathroom floor. Putting on the shirt first, you caught the faint tinge of cologne woven into the fabric—accords of citrus and lavender rounded out by a woodsy smoke you could not place mingled in with the distinct fresh linen scent of clean laundry—and you grimaced. It smelled like him. 

Taking a closer look, you recognized it. It was a shirt he tended to wear on nights he stayed indoors and opted to wear one, the brand one that escaped you. On him it fit snug, accentuating the corded musculature of his torso and arms; on you it hung off your body like a blanket, shapeless and loose and comfortably worn in. He had, however subconsciously, given you a shirt he liked.

Actually I might steal this, this is pretty nice—what the fuck am I saying? No, you know what, it’s payment. This is mine now. That man is shirtless eighty percent of the time anyway, he won’t miss it much.

Once you had finished dressing and brushing your teeth and hair, you stepped out of the bathroom, creeping down the hall as dread leadened your step. You could see the ruffled mop of blonde hair peeking out from the couch, the threat of the unpleasant conversation he would drag you into like a guillotine blade over your neck. The fact that he knew was somehow almost worse than the fact that it had happened, an intrusion into your own sin; you did not want to deal with the quips and gloating smile you were sure were waiting for you.

Still bleary-eyed, he did a double take when you walked into the living room, his stare leveled at the shirt. But he said nothing, an act of mercy you did not take for granted, passing by you without a word as he got up from the couch and trudged into the bathroom. Part of you wanted to thank him for it but knew that would only serve to bring it up, the other part sure he was just too sleepy to think of a jab just yet. Nonetheless, you wracked your brain for a way to do something nice for him, to keep things friendly enough to let the topic stay buried.

Coffee, you decided. That was a great way to convey your silent gratitude for his silence.

He came out while you were putting the first of two pods into an old Keurig stashed in the corner of the counter space, falling to the couch with a loud exhale.

“Morning,” you said cheerfully, fully aware of how forced it had sounded.

“Yeah,” Diego yawned. 

His response had proved in a single word one parallel: Much like Dio though for vastly different reasons, Diego was not at all a morning person, and coffee was a good call. 

“How do you like your coffee?”

“Immediately in my hands, thanks.”

“Cream, sugar?”

“Milk,” he said after a moment. “Just a splash. Two teaspoons of sugar.”

Once it was done you handed Diego his mug first, taking a seat at the dining table. 

“So,” he turned to you on the couch, balancing the mug as he perked up. “Happy Christmas Eve. Expecting anything from Father Christmas? I see you’ve already gotten a new shirt. Curious, though. The shirt, it’s almost…familiar, somehow. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I’ve seen it worn by someone else before.”

And here I was thinking I was safe.

“Maybe you shouldn’t drink that,” you said evenly, taking a sip from your mug as you leveled a steely glare in his direction. “Coffee stunts your growth.”

In a sweeping gesture, Diego panned his hand down the length of his body, pointedly raising his eyebrows while he did so. “Well it’s a bloody good thing I’m already fucking short, isn’t it?”

Then he smirked, his resemblance to Dio eerily uncanny, arrogant triumph oozing from his every pore.

“I must say, it’s quite commendable how militantly you take your title to heart. Assisting Dio’s every need, and with such vigor. Truly, you’re a commendable employee.”

Shaking your head, you looked to Diego, bringing your mug to your lips and extending your index finger toward his. “I should’ve put Draino in that.”

He winced as he took a drink, setting it back down on the coffee table and eyeing it warily. “Tastes like you already did. God, American coffee is terrible.”

Your phone went off in your pocket. Grateful for the interruption, you set down your mug and brought it out, absorbing yourself into the screen. Paying Diego no mind while he stretched upward from the couch in a vain attempt to read it, you found yourself rereading it several times before setting the phone down on the coffee table and picking it back up.

“Ah, is it Dio? Shouldn’t he be sleeping right now? Or could he just not bear the thought of you being alone with the better looking Brando?”

“It’s Gyro,” you answered quietly, staring at the text.

It worked. Holly is fine. Joseph just called and told us.

“Josuke healed Holly.”

Diego raised his eyebrows in genuine surprise, settling back into the couch in a state of pensiveness. “A Christmas miracle.”

Pausing, you set the phone down, your mind scrambling to find the best way to word the questions that danced along your lips. 

You settled on being blunt.

“Can you like, explain all this shit to me? Dio’s kept me in the dark.”

“You mean about the long-standing Joestar-Brando feud?” The question seemed to sober him and he nodded. “Yeah. I can. What exactly do you know?”

“Nothing,” you answered with a sigh, tapping your hand against the table. “Like I said, he’s kept me in the dark.”

“Well,” Diego drew out the word, falling back to the cushions with his hands behind his head, his elbows bent outward and his legs crossed. “This all goes back to Dio and Jonathan. He was adopted by the Joestar family when he was twelve, Johnathan was his adoptive brother. Dunno exactly why or what happened between them, but I know Dio hated the lot of them. He became a vampire in 1888, him and Jonathan got in a fight that led to the Joestar Mansion Fire, and two months later Jonathan Joestar died by Dio’s hand. The ship they were sailing to America on sank, and Dio ended up sinking with it. That’s how he ended up in the Atlantic.”

“…That’s it?”

“Guess so.”

It had all seemed off. The story itself did not warrant the existence of a century-long grudge, not even with the kidnapping of Johnny and Gyro and the murder of Jonathan Joestar in mind. There had to be something deeper, something abhorrent enough to warrant the view of Dio as this great evil—while reprehensible, it had all seemed so petty when Diego laid it out. Something was missing, and the feeling that its omission was intentional began to take root.

Wracking your brain for the answer, the memory of Joseph and Dio’s initial exchange came to mind. The pure anger that seemed to exude from the man was intimidating enough, but one singular thing stood out: the accusation that Dio had stolen something from Jonathan, and from the way he had said it, it was something unforgivable.

Levying your stare at Diego, you tilted your head to the side.

“What did he steal from him?”

Diego shrugged. “Dunno. I think there’s parts of the story Dio withheld from me, if we’re being honest. Anyway, it’s all in the past. The hatchet’s been buried now, don’t trouble yourself too much with digging it up.”

He had spoke a little too hurriedly for it to be genuine, unconsciously scratching at his neck with a too-wide smile.

He’s lying.

“You’re right,” you said with a small smile, nodding at Diego. “It’s not my business, anyway.”

Then you turned your attention back to the phone, typing out a reply to Gyro.

I’ll tell Dio. We should be back the day after Christmas, can I come over when we are? I need to talk to Joseph and your grandpa.

***

6:49pm

It was not out of some desire for normalcy or embracing the holiday spirit that had compelled you to bolt out of the cabin at dusk, nor had it inspired you to drive to the nearest grocery store in a last-ditch effort to make a tiny Christmas dinner for yourself and Diego. After everything that had happened in the past twenty four hours, barring Diego’s earlier joke, the fact that it was Christmas Eve and the original purpose of your stay had completely slipped your mind. It was the groan of Dio’s weight ascending the stairs that had sent you running out the door with your car keys in hand, the idea of having to look him in the eye or be in the same room as him nothing short of intolerable. Alone with your thoughts, you had stalked through the pillaged aisles, settling on two rather battered packaged Cornish hens, a sack of Yukon gold potatoes, canned cranberry sauce, and everything that would need to go into a green bean casserole before taking your time to return to the cabin.

When you had, Dio was gone.

Diego offered little help when you had asked where he had went, giving a noncommittal shrug before eyeing the bags of groceries you had set on the counter. Pointing at them from the chair he had lounged in with a raised eyebrow, there was a genuine note of interest in his voice when he spoke.

“What’s all that?”

“Food,” you replied dryly, sifting through the cabinets for pots and pans and casserole dishes. “Cornish hens, mashed potatoes, gravy, some other stuff. Figured since it’s Christmas Eve we could at least have a nice dinner.”

Baffled, Diego rose from the chair and rifled through the bags that were yet untouched, focused intently on their contents.

“You know Dio can’t eat all that, don’t you?”

Setting the pots and pans down on the counter, you began searching for a cutting board and a knife. “I’m making it for us, not him. Most restaurants are closed, anyway, we can’t get anything delivered.”

“Really?” Bewildered, he sat back down. “That’s…actually quite nice of you. Can you even cook?”

“I can read a recipe. And I have to be stuck with you, I’m making the best of it.”

“Here I was,” he said dryly with a grin, “thinking this was some grand endeavor into making Dio think you’d be a perfect little housewife.”

Grabbing the sack of potatoes and rinsing out a handful, you rolled your eyes. “Fuck Dio.”

Judging from the way Diego had lit up, his expression cocky, you knew instantly that you had set yourself up for disaster.

“Didn’t you, though? Last night?”

“Oh God,” groaning, you began peeling the potatoes. “I will pay you to stop bringing that up. I didn’t even want it to happen!”

“Really?” Mirth contorted Diego’s mouth into a wide grin and he lounged back, giving you a long look. “That’s not what it sounded like.”

Raising his voice to a falsetto, he whined, dramatically clasping his hands and throwing them against his chest while writhing in the chair. “Oh, I hate you, Dio, I hate you—right there, yes, harder, oh God, yes! Fuck, you feel so good, I—oh, Dio!”

“If you don’t shut the fuck up,” you began threateningly, brandishing the knife; collapsing into a fit of laughter, Diego shook his head, and a low voice that made you nearly jump out of your skin cut you off from behind.

“Not bad,” Dio said evenly, obviously amused. “But you’re missing that note of desperation.”

How the fuck does he even do that?! Where did he come from?!

“Knew it was off.” Giving you a roguish wink as you threw the potatoes into the pot with far more force than necessary before bringing it to the sink and filling it with water, Diego looked over your shoulder. “Back already, Dio?”

“Clearly,” he replied dryly, placing a hand on your lower back once you had put the pot on the stove and began chopping herbs for the game hens. “You’re in my way.”

Your grip tightened on the knife.

“So move around,” you said smoothly, cutting into a bunch of parsley with venom. “It’s a big kitchen, plenty of walking space.”

“No it isn’t,” Diego called from the chair. “It’s actually fairly small.”

“Diego, I swear to God—you know what, no. I’m not dealing with you. And what do you even need from a kitchen, Dio? You don’t eat food.”

“The sink.”

“You don’t drink water, and even if you did I doubt it would be tap water.”

A large, bloodied hand floated in the field of your vision and he laughed, low and dangerous in your ear. From the couch, Diego frowned in disgust, blue eyes fixed on the sight.

“Move,” Dio whispered, and you took a long sidestep to the corner of the kitchen while he washed his hands. Then he retreated to the basement without a word, not so much as sparing a second glance at either of you before shutting himself off from the world.

“Right,” Diego said slowly, filling the silence Dio had left behind. “Do you need any help?”

With the tip of the knife, you gestured to the food. “Do you actually plan on helping?”

“Not at all, no,” he replied breezily, settling into the couch. “but I figured asking would be the polite thing to do.”

Flipping him off with your free hand, you focused on the dinner as Diego succumbed to another fit of laughter.

“Are you propositioning me, now? Sorry, but you’re not my type.”

“I’ll throw this in the trash right now, Diego.”

“Okay, okay,” he gathered himself up, wiping at his eye while he stood. “I’m only joking. I’ll help.”

Walking into the kitchen, Diego hoisted himself up to sit on the countertop and took out a container of fried onions from a grocery bag. Exactly how he had proposed to help became evident the moment he had tore off the lid and aluminum seal, pouring himself a handful and popping them into his mouth. 

“Huh.” Pleasantly surprised, he raised an eyebrow and brought the container eye level, studying it while he chewed. “These aren’t as foul as I thought they’d be.”

You took the container and lid from him with an annoyed sigh, motioning for him to jump off the counter and handing him another knife. “Start cutting off the ends of those green beans.”

Sullen, Diego complied, chopping off the ends with a bored expression.

“I’ve a question,” he said, pausing mid-slice. “Don’t worry,” he added, quickly catching onto the annoyance scrawled over your features. “It’s not about Dio.”

“What?”

“Let’s say you were offered a million dollars and immortality, with one caveat: you’re followed forever by an immortal snail. It’s always stalking you, slowly inching toward you, and if it touches you, you die. It’s the only thing that can kill you, and you cannot kill it. What would you do?”

“For starters, turn down the offer.” Shrugging, you turned to Diego, popping the game hens into the oven. “Why? What would you do?”

“Pay someone to keep the bloody snail in a jar and enjoy being an unkillable millionaire,” Diego responded as if it was the most obvious solution.

“What if the jar breaks?”

“I’m a millionaire. I’ll buy another jar.”

The rest of the night passed by rather uneventfully, Dio not once resurfacing from the depths of the basement below. To both you and Diego’s surprise the food had turned out decent, Diego himself being of more help than you had anticipated. Through a mouthful of mashed potatoes he had went so far as to pay you a genuine compliment, bobbing his head in approval while he chewed.

“Not bad,” he had said, gesturing with his fork for emphasis. “You did a good job.”

At half past midnight and long after the clamor of cooking and preparing and cleaning everything up had died down, Diego half asleep on the couch while Christmas movies played on the long since abandoned television, you had almost forgotten entirely that Gyro had texted you about Holly. Bringing out your phone, you saw no response from him—only your family wishing you a merry Christmas and the same shared sentiments of disappointment that you had to work—you swallowed down the lump of trepidation that had welled in your throat and opened your messages.

Josuke was able to heal Holly. Gyro told me earlier.

Dio’s reply was short and to the point, a single word that buried the issue.

Good. 

Then, another popped up.

Come down. I need to speak with you.

Anxious disquiet pooled deep and cold in your blood and you sat up on the couch, frowning at how your stomach had suddenly found itself twisted into knots, your heartbeat a deafening roar. A tremor shook through your fingers as you typed, taking a second to glance over at Diego.

Do I have to? I’m kind of tired.

He had finally surrendered to sleep, one arm thrown over his stomach, his mouth slightly parted open.

You needn’t worry. It’s only a conversation.

In one slow, measured movement you rose from the couch, quietly creeping past Diego and into the basement. Lit only by the television, Dio sat with back to the headrest of the bed, affording you a short glance upward from his phone.

“I suppose,” he drawled, his expression smooth. “I’m feeling quite generous, given the holiday. If you do truly wish to quit, I’ll let you. No questions asked. You can return to your former life, to the bar, and to the rat hole apartment in Los Feliz. And it will be as if all of this,” his hand panned out in a sweeping gesture across the basement, your clothes in a small pile on one of the sitting chairs, “never happened.”

That floored you.

Staring open mouthed at Dio, you took a moment to process what he had said. Sure, you had quite adamantly proclaimed on multiple occasions now that you intended to quit; never once did it occur to you that he would let you. Presented with the opportunity, you found yourself strangely unsettled. Even if he was being genuine—which, part of you doubted—how could your life go back to normal? You had the tiny scar on your neck as a permanent reminder of the existence of Dio Brando, and he had a line on your cellphone plan. And there was the knowledge of what he had done, who he had hurt, that weighed down on you.

There was no normal anymore.

“I think,” you said haltingly, holding your arms around your stomach. “I’m gonna stay. I don’t know if I could quit at this point. The idea of it kind of scares me.”

Dio looked up, setting the phone down on the bed. That had caught his attention. He gestured to the spot beside him and you sat down; there was no need to make this more awkward than it already was, and something in your gut told you that not taking his offer would make it so.

He spoke quietly, facing you. “What about it scares you?”

“Dunno,” you said faintly, folding your hands over your stomach and staring up at the ceiling. “But maybe scared is the wrong word.”

“Is it? How so?”

He had sounded sincere, almost genuinely interested in what you had to say; you found yourself blabbering, unsure and confused by his behavior. “You ever see the movie The Ring as a ki—well, no, of course you didn’t. Obviously. I don’t even think film existed when you were a kid, did it?”

Dio raised an eyebrow, saying nothing.

“The Ring scared the shit out of me when I was little. My grandparents had VHS tapes all over their house and I couldn’t watch anything, I was so scared I’d pop the cursed tape in and die after seven days. I had to cover my TV at night wherever I slept. Didn’t matter if it was their house, my house, a friend’s house. If there was a TV in that room, it was going to be covered with a blanket before the night was over.”

At the memory you smiled, your cheeks tinged with embarrassment, the feeling of the soft fabric of the knockoff San Marcos blanket your grandmother had bought for your grandfather in Santee Alley so many Christmases ago a familiar ghost on your fingertips.

“Took me years to get over that movie. I couldn’t even be around horses because of this one scene with a horse on the ferry. That’s scary to me. That’s not what I’m really feeling now. I think it’s uncertainty. I don’t know how to go back to the quiet, and I don’t know if I can.”

“The quiet?”

“Yeah, you know what I mean? Like I’m so used to being worried about what happens next that just having a moment of peace is fucking scary. I’m always looking over my shoulder and waiting now. It didn’t used to be like that.”

He fell back into silence, staring forward.

“I suppose I can understand.”

Something unspoken settled between you; the understood and unacknowledged knowing that he was responsible for that feeling, heavy and cold and stifling in its enormity. Tension crept in, crawling up from your navel to your neck, and you left the bed, wanting to get away from the heaviness of the conversation and the air and the severe set of his eyes.

“I’m going to get some water,” you said hurriedly, the words leaving you in one rush while you left the room. He watched you go with mild amusement, shaking his head with a faint smile.

Catching your breath in the kitchen, you poured yourself a glass of water and chugged it down, Diego nowhere to be seen.

Probably went to bed.

Pouring yourself another, you took in a deep breath, breathing out in one measured exhale before drawing in another.

He was disarming when he wanted to be, enough so to make you forget the look in his eye a mere night before, that fury in his voice and the painful grip of his hand on your arm. So quietly and effortlessly he had dispelled those memories with a simple conversation, himself doing little more than allowing you to rant about childhood terrors and your own worries. It was almost enough to make you believe there could be something capable of compassion and empathy, of respect, in him; that he might have cared, somehow. 

Did he? 

With a soft clink, you set the glass down, staring into the depths of the cabin without actually seeing. You were consumed by it, by the patient cadence of his voice and the way he had appeared sympathetic while he listened, by all the little moments where he had almost been kind. It provoked in you a tiny shred of doubt, gently pushing forward the idea that you could have been wrong about him. 

No, I’m just inventing things that aren’t there. Last night is messing with my head. That’s all.

Sighing, you put your hands down on the counter, blinking and gathering your thoughts.

Maybe I should just tell Dio I’m tired and go to bed. 

Instead, against your better judgment, you went back down.

When you had returned, the room was illuminated in cyan. A television remote lay in the middle of the bed, Dio watching with an expression that you would describe as nonchalant boredom at best, and you returned to your spot beside him, looking toward the television.

“What are you—oh no.”

The scene playing out in front of you was one you recognized all too well. The stark white of the empty house, the two teenaged girls in front of a television screen, talking about a visit to a cabin and watching a videotape; it was a scene that had precluded years of horror, of second glances at hulking television sets that gave way to flat screens and jumping every time you heard a phone go off at night. 

He had put on The Ring.

“Turn it off,” you pleaded, your voice higher and more harried than you had wished. 

“Oh,” he looked nothing short of angelic as he leaned over, his head tilted to the side as he gazed down at you. In his eyes shone unshakable wickedness, greatly betraying the softness of his smile. “Absolutely not.”

He put an arm around you, forcing you to stay.

“Consider this your Christmas gift to me. I want to see you scared.”

Motherfucker.

Biting down on the inside of your cheek, you sat next to Dio and watched the movie, the desire to punch him in the face growing each time he moved your hands away from your eyes and laughed when you yelped, contenting yourself with the idea that he would let you escape once you had suffered through it with him. He had laughed when you tried, yanking you back down to the bed before proclaiming that he had not been satisfied and you had needed to experience “true fear”, putting on The Exorcist with a malicious grin.

Yet despite it all, exhausted by everything that had unfolded over the past two days, you fell asleep beside him at three in the morning, the last thing you could recall as sleep claimed you being the heavy feeling of the duvet being pulled over you.

***

Christmas Day

11:21am

When you had awoke the next morning, it was to the sight of a knitted throw blanket draped over the television, a silent mockery of your confession. Scowling, you grabbed your clothes from the chair, shooting a hateful glare at Dio’s sleeping form. Diego was waiting for you on the couch, a sly grin pulling at his lips while he stood.

“Happy Christmas,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve got a gift for you.”

Warily you eyed Diego, giving him a careful once-over. “Is this a trap?”

“You wound me.” Throwing his hands over his heart in a dramatic flourish, Diego staggered back in an exaggerated display of one that had just been dealt a horrific blow. Then he straightened his posture, his cagey smile wide as he extended his arm to you. Folded neatly down the middle, he held a paper square aloft between two fingers. 

“That’s for you.”

Skeptical, you took it and unfolded the paper, your bemusement giving way to a pronounced scowl. It was a check made out to you in the amount of one hundred dollars, a succinct message scrawled in nearly illegible script along the memo line: for a chiropractor.

“I figured you would need it. You know,” Diego beamed, gesturing to the basement door. “Since he broke your back and all.”

Stomping off to your room to the sound of Diego’s cackling, you threw the clothes to the floor and sank to the bed with an exasperated groan.

I should have quit when I had the chance, I hate this entire fucking family.

Chapter Text

The moment the wheels of the SUV crossed the threshold of Los Angeles, the world had slipped back into an almost familiar rhythm.

Almost, were it not for the peculiar silence.

Like smoke, Dio had seemingly vanished, adopting a policy of distance that bordered on extreme. So militant was he toward it, time itself seemed to stop long enough to provide him with a quick exit the moment you would walk into the room; the only indication he had been there in the first place a glimpse of blonde hair that was gone in an instant. Radio silent during the day—even if he was awake, the faint rustling of papers or the crisp thud of a book being closed the sole clue that he was still there—he would text you precisely at dusk, solely for work related tasks and rarely typing more than eight words at a time.

On the first day, immense relief had taken hold. By the third, you were nervous.

He was nowhere to be found and yet an inescapable presence and the silence gave you far too much time to think; the memory of him pinpricks of winter on your skin. Though it was not necessary to venture up to the second floor, you would invent reasons to—a question for Diego that you had already known the answer to, needing a book out of the room Dio had fashioned into a makeshift library that you never planned to open, poring over contracts and brand deals in the office that you had read a thousand times before—just to make sure he was still there. And every time you would, you could hear him grow still, listening for you in turn.

Not infrequently did you find yourself wondering if you had done something wrong, quickly deciding you had not each time as you descended the stairs with a befuddled expression. He was the one that had sent you out to watch Joseph and the others leave, he was the one that had became incensed at the suggestion of you learning Hamon; he was the one that had brought you into the basement and he was the one that had pushed that night into the direction it had gone. At the center of it all was where he always stood, with his dangerous smile and his damnable charm, drawing you ever deeper into his own little machinations. 

So why is he punishing me for all of this?

At dusk on the fourth day, you decided that you had enough. You would confront him at dusk, you had decided, banking on the possibility of him being too drowsy to consider turning you away. Raising your fist to knock on his bedroom door, his voice stopped you before your hand even touched the wood.

“I know you’re there,” he called softly; you could clearly make out the swirling combination of amusement and annoyance in his voice. “I’ve heard you stalking through the hallway for days. Come in.”

Opening the door, you found Dio standing by the fireplace, his focus trained on the arrow mounted to the wall. Crossing over to it, he lifted the arrow from its mount and held it aloft in his hand, watching the tip of the arrow carefully.

“It may be advantageous for you to contact Joseph Joestar and take him up on his offer. Ask him to teach you Hamon.”

Letting your mouth fall open, you gawped at Dio, incredulous. “You’re joking, right? After that big ass fight we got into—”

“—Was that a fight?” He looked up at you then, his gaze like sunset over a wildfire, its intensity calling your heart to your throat as it trailed over you from head to toe. “Interesting way to frame it.”

Whether by sleight of hand or by some otherworldly force, the arrow spun in his palm, pointing directly at you for a split second before swinging over toward Dio. A faint smirk played across his lips and he returned it to its place, dismissing you with a brisk wave.

“Call him. That’s all.”

“Wait—” you began, a thousand questions at the ready. Why change your mind? What’s going on? How’d you do that? Are you mad at me or something? Why do you want me to learn Hamon? What did I do?

Dio cut you off, his patience vanishing.

“Out,” he said more forcefully, pointing to the door.

Brow furrowed, you complied, leaving the room without another word. From the walk downstairs to the backyard, you replayed the brief conversation in your head, poring over every syllable to eke out some deeper meaning that may have escaped you and finding none. The sudden change of heart only added to your mounting bewilderment toward his behavior, consuming you entirely as you sat down near the fire pit.

You had not even noticed Diego was outside, crouched in the garden and closely examining a handful of smooth, tiny rocks. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Arching an eyebrow, he sized you up, turning over a pebble in his hand before cleaning it off on his sweater.

“Is Dio being weird toward you?”

“Not to me, no. Is this about him avoiding you?”

“You noticed?”

“Even a blind man would notice Dio sprinting out of a room the moment he heard you walking toward it.”

Diego paused for a moment, staring down at the rocks in his hand.

“Look away for a moment, will you?”

Wary, you eyed the rocks. “If you pelt those at my head I’m drowning you in the pool.”

“Oh, just shut up and look away.”

Apprehension nagging at you, you pointedly looked toward the pool, sneaking a glance at Diego from the corner of your eye just in time to see him tilt his head back, pop the handful of rocks into his mouth, and swallow them before standing and dusting off his jeans.

Did he just—what—he just—why?

“Diego,” a surprised laugh of unease left you and you pointed to his hand. “Did you just eat fucking rocks?”

“I told you not to look!” Discomfited, Diego glared at you, his cheeks tinged bright red.  “It’s embarrassing.”

“Hell yeah it’s embarrassing, you ate rocks.”

“They’re called,” he said impatiently, walking toward the fire pit and sitting across from you. “Gastroliths. They’re meant to ease stomach upset.”

“Yeah, for lizards, maybe, not—oh, right.” Smiling weakly, you pointed to Diego. “You’re part lizard or whatever.”

Giving you a sarcastic smile in turn, Diego leaned toward the fire from his seat. 

“So. Did he talk to you?”

“Just to tell me he wants me to learn Hamon. Then he kicked me out of the room.”

“You’re joking.” His jaw fell and he stared at you, his shock evident. “Didn’t the mere idea of it make him, well…you know.” 

In a display of mock anger, Diego bared his teeth and shook his hands in the air as if strangling an invisible neck, before forming a circle with one hand and repeatedly jabbing his index finger in and out of its center with a smirk. Ignoring the latter half of his pantomime, you nodded.

“You heard that part, too?”

“Thin walls,” Diego explained, scratching at the bridge of his nose. “Erm. Flooring. Anyway, are you going to do it?”

You had not had much time to think about it, and took your time to answer. The idea of learning Hamon did not exactly appeal to you; life was confusing enough without learning something you knew far too little about to understand. Openly rejecting his request, however, was equally unfavorable. Dio being a man that was mercurial in temperament on a good day at best, there was no way to anticipate how he would interpret that act of defiance. That coupled with his vehemently avoidant behavior made him firmly unpredictable, and that worried you more than the possibility of stepping outside your comfort zone. In your eyes there was no definite answer to settle on, nor viable outcome, and you chose to be honest.

“I mean, I don’t really want to? But I don’t want to piss him off by not doing it, either.”

“I say do it,” Diego’s grin split wide behind the flickering embers, giving him the air of a tempting devil. “Look at the home you live in. Dio’s a nigh-indestructible vampire with an absurdly powerful Stand, I turn into a raptor, and you…send out emails. It’s about time you became a freak like the rest of us.”

“Right,” you said mildly, desperately wishing to cling to the reality where all you did was send out emails. “Anyway, I don’t even have Joseph’s number, so I don’t know how I’m supposed to get into contact with him.”

But I do have Gyro’s.

As you thought of him you remembered texting him just days before, asking to come by to speak with Caesar and Joseph; accompanying the recollection was Diego’s too-wide smile while he scratched at his throat and the vague history lesson that left you with more questions than answers.

I still don’t even know what’s going on.

However unknowingly, Dio had given you the means to find out.

Resolute, you brought out your phone and messaged Gyro, asking again to come by and speak with Joseph and Caesar. Almost instantly your phone began to ring, his name blared across the screen like a silent banner of war. Watching it all unfold from across the fire pit, Diego cocked his head to the side, intrigued.

“Perdonami, bambina,” drawled Gyro, heavy on the charm. “I thought I messaged you back. Colpa mia. How are you, how was your Christmas?”

“Don’t worry about it, you’re good.” Praying that you had picked up on the context clues correctly, you affected an air of nonchalance, adrenaline racing through your pulse at the prospect of finally getting answers. “I’m uh, I’m good. Christmas was fine. You?”

“Now that I have the voice of a beautiful woman in my ear?” Rolling your eyes, you shook your head; you could vividly picture Gyro’s smirk. “Never better.”

Across from you, Diego stuck his index finger toward his open mouth and pretended to gag. Wordlessly motioning for him to be quiet, you listened as Gyro went on.

“Now on to your question. Is this about Joseph offering to teach you Hamon?”

“Actually, yeah,” you replied. “They told you?”

“They did.” Shifting into a more serious tone, he paused. “If you want, you can come over Friday. My Nonno’s having a get together for New Year’s Eve, Joseph will be there. He’s still in town. The party starts at eight, but if you want to talk to them before I’d say come by at around seven o’clock.”

“Seven works,” you agreed. “Just text me the address.”

“Will do. Oh,” warmth returned to his voice as he spoke, almost enthusiastic. “And stay for the party, bambina. You might have fun. If your boss will let you, anyway.”

“I’ll think about it. See you Friday.”

“Ciao.”

He hung up, and Diego immediately frowned.

“God, I hate that smarmy git.”

“At least he doesn’t eat rocks.”

“Gastroliths,” he stubbornly insisted. “And it’s not like I’m thrilled about it myself.”

Swallowing back a laugh, you messaged Dio.

I’m going to see Joseph on Friday. They invited me to a New Year’s Eve party, I’m going to talk to him then.

His reply was succinct, though surprising.

Good. Go to the party.

“You told Dio? Well?” Diego watched you expectantly. “What did he say?”

“To stay for the party.”

Frowning, Diego stared into the fire. “Dunno why,” he said slowly, “but this all seems a bit weird, doesn’t it? Dio wanting you to learn Hamon, telling you to go party with the Joestars? Something seems off. I have a bad feeling about this.”

Once Diego had said it out loud, you could not help but feel a hollow pull at your gut, a trickle of foreboding crawling its way down your spine. With a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold, you nodded silently.

So do I.

The next two days passed by at an agonizingly slow crawl. The house itself had not felt any different, yet you walked through it on tenterhooks, each text from Dio—all of them innocuous, never stepping outside the realm of “email this brand, turn down this deal, delete these comments, go get the PR packages from the post office”—goading what had been a tiny ember of wordless apprehension into a roaring blaze. Diego had planted within you a seed of doubt, another question you were certain would go unanswered, and for the first time you wondered if Dio was willingly sending you into a trap. When New Year’s Eve had finally came a tremor had shook your hand while you put on your makeup at five in the evening, worry roaring through your ears as you dressed and did your hair.

By seven o’clock, you had driven up to the brick-lined driveway on Middleridge Lane a nervous wreck.

The home itself was modest at a glance, a paneled white single level ranch style elevated onto a sprawling green lawn dominated by perfectly trimmed trees. A closer look proved more telling; while it was in no means a monstrous estate like Dio’s, it was only modest at a glance, the three car garage itself alone the size of the guest house you called home. A massive stone chimney dominated the space near the front door, nestled between two windows that gave a tiny peek into the brightly lit home beyond. Cozy, it screamed quiet money, a sentiment echoed by the Ferrari in the driveway.

Parking behind an old moss green Ford Bronco that had been lovingly restored, the first thing you noticed was Gyro’s car at the end of the driveway, duct tape covering the driver’s side window. A pang of guilt rushed through you at the sight, one that abruptly snapped away when the front door opened and Gyro stepped out.

“Bambina,” he greeted as he approached, extending his arms out and pulling you into a hug. “Good to see you.”

“Sorry about your car,” you said into his chest, your speech muffled by the hug. 

“What?” He looked down at you in confusion, raising an eyebrow before understanding. “Oh, don’t worry about it, that’s not my car. It’s one of my Nonno’s old cars that doesn’t get driven often. That,” he let you go and gestured to the Ford Bronco, “is my car.”

Somehow that’s actually fitting.

“Anyway,” draping an arm over your shoulders, Gyro led you to the front door. “Let’s go inside.”

He brought you inside and steered you toward an open living room, the eggshell white walls accented by the rich wood of the floors and lit stone fireplace. A fully lit Christmas tree sat nestled in the corner by a set of French doors leading out into the backyard, the patio area draped in lights. On the couch sat Joseph, gargantuan in contrast to the compact tan leather, who rose to his feet immediately.

“You made it!” He boomed, closing the distance in one quick stride and engulfing you into an embrace. “How was the drive?”

Jesus, they’re a touchy-feely bunch. I’ve met Joseph once and he’s acting like I’m his grandkid.

“Awful,” you said with a bracing smile, craning your neck to look up at him as he let you go. “Thanks for making time for me.”

“Ah, it’s nothing!” Beaming, he motioned you to the couch opposite the one where he had sat, a wordless encouragement to sit down. Soft footsteps coming down the hall alerted you to Caesar and you turned, your nerves returning in full force. Gyro, it seemed, picked up on it, quietly walking behind you and putting a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

“Buonosera, signorina,” Caesar said calmly, his eyes immediately landing on Gyro’s hand before moving to your face. “Gyro said you’re here to ask about learning Hamon.”

“Well,” you said after a moment. “Not just that. I have some questions before we even talk about Hamon.”

“Really?” Caesar watched you carefully as he spoke. It became clear in the way that he had not sat down that he was cautious; equally guarded in his responses, he was in great opposition to Joseph, and you had the sinking feeling that Caesar was not as open to Joseph’s offer. “Such as?”

Taking a deep breath, you went straight in. “What’s going on? Like, with you guys and Dio? What’s the story there?”

Joseph and Caesar exchanged a long look, and Gyro’s hand tightened almost imperceptibly on your shoulder. Cold shrouded itself over you like a blanket and the atmosphere in the room shifted, suddenly monstrous and tense.

Joseph spoke first, the warmth and volume in his voice absent. “How much do you know about Dio?”

“Only what Diego’s told me, and I feel like he might not have told me everything. He said he was adopted by your…great-grandfather?” You looked to Joseph and he nodded, waiting for you to continue. “And that Dio didn’t get along with your family, and during a fight after he became a vampire and killed Jonathan.”

“That’s…well, a very lacking abridged summary,” Caesar said quietly, taking a seat on the couch near Joseph. “You’re right. Diego did withhold some things.”

“More like everything,” Joseph countered with a derisive snort. Then, switching his attention over to you, he sighed. “Do you know what the Stone Masks are?”

“No,” you answered honestly. “Why?”

Caesar answered, azure eyes darkened as he spoke. “The Stone Masks were created by an ancient race from Mesoamerica. We don’t know their real name, but when they were discovered in 1939 they were called The Pillar Men. They were superhuman and immortal, capable of great intellect and strength. Joseph and I fought the last three when they had resurfaced. Kars, Esidisi, and Wamuu.”

“Four,” Joseph corrected. “You forgot Santana.”

“Four,” Caesar amended with a nod. “I was not there for the fight with Santana.”

Wide eyed, you glanced between the two men, Gyro’s hand still on your shoulder. “Is Dio a Pillar Man?”

“No, signorina,” Caesar replied, for the first time giving you a soft smile. “But it is because of them that Dio exists. The Stone Masks were used by the Pillar Men to turn humans into vampires, which they would then devour. But they served a greater purpose: to turn the Pillar Men into the Ultimate Beings, creatures that were invulnerable to sunlight, all but unable to be killed. When the Pillar Men tribe opposed its leader, Kars, for suggesting they use them to attain that power in conjunction with a gemstone called the Red Stone of Aja, he put the entire tribe to genocide.”

“My great-grandparents, George and Mary Joestar, had one of the last Stone Masks,” Joseph’s expression darkened, and he leaned forward. “They didn’t know what it was or what it was capable of. Dio himself never really knew, I think. But he found out how it worked and turned himself into a vampire.”

Hollowed out by what you knew so far, you addressed Joseph first. “How do they work?”

He looked grim, his face screaming that he wished he did not have to answer. “When you put on the mask and cover it in blood, the mask activates. It pierces the skull, activating the dormant parts of the brain, and transforms the wearer into a vampire. Dio killed George Joestar to turn himself. But he had been trying to kill George Joestar long before that. His goal originally was to kill him, then Jonathan, and as the sole heir to the Joestar fortune he…well, I don’t really know that part. I only know what he aspired to do after he became a vampire.”

You were almost scared to ask. “What did he want?”

“Power,” Joseph replied, his voice grave. “He wanted to take over the world and rule it as a living god, and he started with a little town called Windknight’s Lot. It doesn’t exist anymore, it got incorporated into the greater Brighton area in 1903. But in 1888, he enslaved the entire town within twenty four hours. That’s why my grandfather learned Hamon, to stop Dio.”

“So,” you said slowly, near-dizzy as you tried to process what Joseph had just told you. “That’s why you guys have beef with Dio. But why you?” Your gaze shifted to Caesar, his face similarly grim. “How does your family factor into all of this?”

It took a moment for Caesar to respond; when he did, he looked almost pained. “My great-grandfather is the reason the Stone Masks were unearthed. He was a professor in archaeology, and discovered one on an expedition in Mexico that was sponsored by his university. During the voyage home, he put it on, the crew none the wiser as to why people had begun dying. My grandfather reasoned it was the mask and barely survived when he was attacked, the only thing that saved him was the sunrise. He ended up traveling to Tibet after seeing a healer in India use Hamon and became a master in the art, then went to England once he had heard about Dio. He taught Jonathan Joestar Hamon.” 

“Our grandfathers,” he pointed between himself and Caesar, “both died fighting him. We’ve dedicated our lives to eradicating the Stone Masks with the help of the Speedwagon Foundation in honor of that sacrifice, knowing there was a chance Dio could’ve survived. Now he’s here, and we’re hearing reports that Dio is looking for another Stone Mask. Him having a Stand is also quite worrying, considering the damage he can do.”

Absorbing all of this information with no small amount of horror, you looked Joseph square in the eye.

“That night in the cabin, you said he took something from Jonathan. What did he take?”

Joseph sighed, his face grim. “His body. My grandfather attacked him with Hamon in an effort to kill him in Windknight’s Lot, and Dio cut off his own head to make sure he survived. Then he killed Jonathan and grafted his own head onto my grandfather’s body.”

His body? His body?!

A violent shudder convulsed at your spine, nausea roiling in your stomach like a furious ocean storm. With bleak horror you thought of that thin scar like barbed wire at his neck, and you brought an unconscious hand to your own throat.

He stole his body.

Barely above a whisper, you spoke in one low, trembling breath. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?” 

Solemn, Joseph shrugged down the collar of his shirt and angled his body toward you, revealing the same star shaped birthmark Dio had on his own shoulder. “This is the trademark sign of a Joestar. This birthmark. My grandfather had it, I have it, my daughter has it, my sons have it, my grandson has it, and my great-granddaughter has it. If you see Dio’s shoulder, look for this birthmark.”

It was as if all the blood had drained from you, sucked out from the soles of your feet and siphoned into the ether. Any shred of doubt that may had dwelled in you at their tale dissipated the moment Joseph had shown you the star; now, all you could think of was how Dio’s had looked in the moonlight.

“Dio is not who you think he is,” Caesar added, his expression similarly glum. “He is a monster at his core, and he would sooner kill you than treat you as an equal. You and Diego helped Gyro and Johnny survive that night at great personal risk, however unaware of it you may have been, and you deserve that same help. But Diego has a Stand, he can defend himself. You do not. That’s why Joseph offered to teach you Hamon.”

Tilting your head upward, your eyes found their way to Gyro’s, a dark understanding in his stare as he looked down at you.

Did he know all of this?

“Okay. Teach me,” you said quietly, addressing Joseph and Caesar. “I want to learn.”

“We can start after the New Year,” Joseph said with a nod. “I’ve got a house down the road that’s in escrow. We can’t take you to Air Supplena, but we do have a training facility nearby.”

“I’m free during the day. Let me know what works best.”

“We will. Now,” clapping his hands together,  Joseph beamed. “The party’s starting soon. Are you staying?”

“Yeah,” you mustered up the strength to smile, still reeling.

He stole his body.

“People should start coming any minute now. You remember my grandson, Jotaro? He’ll be here tonight. Same with Johnny. Josuke’s back in Japan, but you’ll meet my daughters.”

“Sounds good,” you managed. 

At that Joseph stood, offering you a genuine look of sympathy. “It’s a lot to take in. Try to enjoy yourself, though.”

How am I supposed to enjoy myself? How do I even act like a person right now? 

Then he and Caesar disappeared into the backyard, their heads bent low as they engaged in a conversation you could not hear.

You could feel Gyro’s breath on your neck as he bent low to whisper in your ear. “Are you okay?”

“Not even a little,” you croaked, your composure cracking. “I live in a fucking horror story.”

“Welcome to our lives,” he laughed mirthlessly, letting go of your shoulder. “The old man’s right. It’s a lot, but you learn to cope with it and try to enjoy yourself. Want some wine?”

No, I want a time machine so I can go back to Halloween and kick the shit out of myself.

“Absolutely, yes.”

Crossing over to the front of the couch, Gyro extended his hand to you. “Come on, let’s go outside.”

You took it and he led you to a lush, expertly managed expanse of verdant green, past a small pool to the left of the patio area and toward a towering gazebo that doubled as an outdoor bar. Stepping behind the counter, he poured you a glass of wine; the sight of it brought you violently back to the memory of Halloween, pouring Dio a glass you did not know he would never drink, sealing your fate and leading you here.

“Don’t worry,” Gyro said airily as he handed you the glass. It was white wine, crisp and dry at your lips. “I’ll stick by you tonight. You won’t be alone.”

“Thanks.” Taking a long drink, you set the glass back down on the bar. “I appreciate it.”

“Anything for a gorgeous woman like you, carina,” he winked and poured himself a glass.

Joseph wandered over to the bar, the three of you making small talk as Gyro took a seat next to you and guests began filtering in. First came Jotaro, bringing with him a slender man dressed in a green turtleneck that clashed violently with his shock of long, cherry red hair, two vertical scars running across his peculiar lavender eyes. Following close behind was an equally perplexing man, tall and well-built with silver hair styled into a gravity-defying flat top, and another in a long red coat with his hair styled in Bantu knots. Joseph left to greet them immediately, ignoring the way Jotaro seized up as he was absorbed into a bear hug—Joseph, it seemed, just hugged everyone—and awkwardly looked over to the others for help.

“Those guys, right there?” Gyro kept his voice low, cocking his head toward the spectacle. “The redhead is Noriaki Kakyoin. The guy with the weird mullet is Jean Pierre Polnareff, and the guy in red is Muhammad Avdol. They’re friends of Joseph’s and Jotaro’s. All of them are Stand users, and Kakyoin works for the Speedwagon Foundation.”

After them came Johnny, brought in by a young woman with waist-length jet black hair. Petite and slim, she was consumed by the oversized jean jacket she wore, large sunglasses over her eyes despite it being fully dark. Stopping long enough to greet Jotaro and Joseph, she continued to push Johnny on the patio, scanning the backyard.

“Is that Johnny’s girlfriend?” Covertly tilting your head in her direction, Gyro looked toward Johnny and shook his head with a small smile.

“Adopted sister. That’s Shizuka Joestar.”

Johnny and Shizuka spotted Gyro almost instantly, wandering over as they talked amongst themselves, Johnny’s subdued smile a foil to Shizuka’s lively chatter. 

Within an hour the house was packed with people, some of them conservatively dressed and demure; others, bafflingly styled and outlandish, it was easy to pick out who were simply neighbors and friends Caesar had made within the community and who was not.

“That,” Gyro said when a slim man with a bob of blue-black hair dressed in a flamboyant spotted white suit that exposed his chest had walked onto the patio, closely followed by a man with long white hair in a similarly revealing deep blue overcoat held together by purple laces and matching bell bottoms, “is Bruno Bucciarati. With him is Leone Abbacchio. I’m surprised they’re here, they must have flown in from Italy.”

“Bucciarati’s a mob boss,” Shizuka explained with a wide smile; it was the first thing she had said to you aside from introducing herself.

Oh. Well. That’s…that’s something.

Gyro stepped back behind the bar.

“Another glass of wine?”

“Dear God, please.”

“Give me some whiskey,” Johnny added. “I’m gonna need it, Joseph hasn’t attacked me with one of his hugs yet and I don’t want to be sober for that.”

So I was right, he’s just like that.

As if speaking him into existence, Joseph had materialized nearby, dread drowning in Johnny’s eyes as Joseph squeezed the poor kid in his grasp. As the night wore on, you learned rather quickly that Gyro could not fulfill his promise, making the rounds to greet everyone that had shown up and disappearing into the throng. Shortly after he had left, promising to return, Shizuka and Johnny had followed, making their way over to Jotaro. His stare had kept lingering toward you in a confusion that was nothing short of stoic, occasionally leaning over to say something to Kakyoin.

Then, Caesar had walked over to you.

“Are you all right, signorina?” Gentle, there was a deeper question behind the words, one you could not discern but nonetheless braced yourself for. 

“I’m fine,” you reassured him with a smile.

“Joseph,” he said delicately, “is less…discerning, for lack of a better word, than he could be for a man his age. He’s always willing to see the good in people and give the benefit of the doubt. It’s an admirable quality, but it does grant a certain oversight at times. Like how he didn’t see the scar on your neck.”

His eyes flicked to it, impassive, before he went on.

“I don’t know the details of your relationship to Dio, and I won’t ask. It would be rude of me. But I can hazard a guess. I would caution you to be on your guard, no matter how charming Dio may be.” 

Oh God, he knows.

He gave you no time to respond, returning to the partygoers and leaving you shaken.

This was a mistake. I need to get out of here.

Fumbling for your keys in your pocket, you squeezed through the crowd and bolted through the French doors that led into the living room just in time to see Gyro walking down the hallway with a corked bottle of wine.

“Looking for me?” He gave you a roguish smile, one that faltered once he had caught the look on your face. “What’s wrong?”

“I should go,” you answered in a rush of air, your face burning. 

Troubled, Gyro closed the distance between you. “Not like that, bambina. Come on, we’ll talk.”

Quietly, he led you to a room at the end of the hall and opened the door, turning on the light to reveal a bedroom that had very obviously been cleaned in a panic mere hours before, the bed pushed against the far wall the only thing that had looked painstakingly tidied. Sitting you down on it, he held up a finger and motioned for you to wait, leaving the room with the wine and returning five minutes later with two bottles of champagne.

“Just in case we’re here until midnight,” he explained as he held them up, setting them on a desk in the corner. Sitting next to you on the bed, he watched you closely. “Is this because of earlier? We may not know each other all that well, but I promise I’m a good listener.”

“I guess I’m just overwhelmed,” you said nervously. Then the words poured out of you like vomit and you found yourself telling Gyro everything, leaving out only the more physical aspects of your connection to Dio. True to his word, he was a good listener, nodding and looking shocked at all the appropriate parts. Midway through, he had opened one of the bottles and you drank it together, eschewing glasses entirely and taking swigs off the lip of the bottle in turns. By the time you had begun to tell him about meeting Diego, you had felt warm and faintly dizzy, the champagne highlighting a flush across your cheeks.

“Che cazzo,” Gyro fell back into the mattress, succumbing to uproarious laughter. “He turns into a dinosaur? That’s fitting.”

You couldn’t help it; you began laughing too, nodding. “What does che cazzo mean?”

“I guess you could say it’s similar to ‘what the fuck’,” he replied, looking over at you.

“You speak Italian a lot.”

“Because I am Italian,” he said in a serious voice, contrasted greatly by the exaggerated accent he had put on and the way he had sat up and brought his fingers around his thumbs, shaking them toward you for emphasis. “And it’s a hit with the ladies.”

“Is it? Do they swoon over you calling them bambina and signorina and yelling che cazzo?”

“Not so much that,” he laughed. “There are far more effective ways than that to seduce someone. Italian is a romance language, after all.”

“Really?” Daring, not entirely unmotivated by the champagne and a desire to compel Dio out of your mind seized you, and you looked Gyro square in the eye. “Show me.”

He moved closer on the bed, your thighs nearly touching. At a close glance, he was altogether attractive, his features a  contrast between effeminate and masculine, the rich pout of his lips and the long thicket of lashes framing the vivid green of his eyes standing in great contrast to the chiseled slope of his nose and the sharp definition of his jaw. In another life, one that had abruptly come to an end in the backseat of your car two months before, he would have been the exact man you would have sought out to break your heart. 

But now, the proximity of him sent the visage of Dio ricocheting back into your mind, and you hastily collected yourself before you began reeling in horror. The pounding in your chest alerted you to how close you were to panic as you pictured his scar, the Joestar birthmark on his—not his, Jonathan’s—broad shoulders.

“Oh,” Gyro smiled wickedly. “Are you sure, signorina? I must warn you, no woman can resist the allure of Gyro Zeppeli, and I will not hold back.”

At that point, you would have agreed to anything to get the feeling of Dio’s hands out of your mind. He could have asked you to swan dive into a bed of fiberglass and you would have done a pirouette off the diving board if it promised to distract you, even if it was just for a little while. Anything was better than how that scar haunted you now, how you recalled his touch and envisioned a headless man reaching for you in the dark.

You nodded.

Gyro blinked, genuine surprise showing for just a moment on his face before giving you a wolfish grin. 

“Dolcezza mia,” he whispered, his voice husky and low as he watched you through half-lidded eyes, pulling you close and playing with your hair. “Sei bellissima. Voglio perdermi nei tuoi bellissimi occhi fino all’alba. Tuo sorriso, mi fa battere il cuore. Vorrei tanto baciarti in questo momento.”

He tucked his hand under your chin, and for a brief moment you were sure he was leaning in for a kiss. Then he laughed.

“Did it work? Are you seduced?”

“If I had any idea what that meant, I might be.”

“It means, “my sweetheart, you’re beautiful. I want to get lost in your beautiful eyes until the sun rises. Your smile, it makes my heart beat. I would love to kiss you right now.” Works like a charm back in Napoli.”

“Does it?”

“Oh, absolutely. Like I said, bambina. No woman can resist the allure of Gyro Zeppeli.”

Anything to forget.

“So about that date,” you began, glancing up at Gyro as triumph danced peridot in his gaze.

“Ah,” he leaned in close; you could smell the champagne on his breath. “I knew it would work.”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“Finish, then, carina.”

“Why don’t we skip it altogether?” Pointing to the bed, you took a brief moment to collect your resolve.

Don’t think about Dio.

“We’re already where it would’ve ended up.”

His mouth shot up into a smirk, his stare nothing short of desirous as it raked over your figure.

“Oh,” Gyro’s voice dropped to a whisper. If he could see it, he gave no indication that your mind was elsewhere. “I like the way you think.”

Greedy and spirited and colored with drink, he swallowed you into a blistering kiss and you surrendered without a fight, his touch like fire as he cupped your cheek. It was so warm, so comforting and full of life; the direct antithesis of that cold touch like marble at the small of your back—

Don’t think about Dio.

“You can relax,” he whispered, misinterpreting the war you had found yourself fighting as nerves and putting a gentle hand on yours. “I’ll be gentle.”

That’s not what worries me.

Managing a grin, you pulled him down with you to the mattress. “Thought you said you weren’t going to hold back.”

“My God,” he exclaimed, a small appreciative laugh shaking his shoulders. “Are you trying to make me fall in love with you?”

I’m trying to make you get me to forget that I fucked a body thief, but I’m not about to tell you that.

He gave you no time to answer, resuming the kiss. Near desperate to stop thinking entirely, you pressed yourself against him, running your nails down his back and banishing the thought of flaxen gold hair falling around you in soft waves or the broad scope of alabaster shoulders marked with a burgundy star. A short moan underscored with pleasant surprise pushed from his throat and he slipped an hand under your shirt, pulling down at your bra and brushing his thumb over your nipple before kneading at the mound. The sensation of it forced a quiet mewl from your chest, the feel of him like the champagne on his lips. He stayed that way for what felt like unending agony, simply content to kiss and touch you and you let him, lost in the distraction he promised. Then he pulled back, coaxing up the fabric of your shirt slowly until you sat up and took it off yourself.

When you brought your hands behind your back to unclasp your bra, he stilled them, his faces inches from your own.

“No,” he said softly, bringing your hands forward. “Let me.”

It was with the reverence of a curator peeling back layers of wrapping to unearth the contents beneath that he undressed you, his touch slow and sure as he put aside each piece of clothing. When you were laid bare, he set you back on the bed, planting a splay of kisses down the length of your neck and collarbone as his hands explored every dip and arch of you. This, you realized, was the actual seduction. Not the rhapsodizing, nor the brazen confidence with which he engaged you; it was the way he caressed each curve like a lover, the gentle touch of his lips on your skin, all of it silently convincing you that he wanted this, he wanted you. That for as long as you would let yourself be his, it was only you he had eyes for.

And it was working.

His tongue flicked over your nipple as he closed his lips over it, teasing and sucking and gently catching it between his teeth. One nimble hand, slender and precise, reached for your breast; in little time, he was pinching and rolling the other with his fingers, moving them in tandem with his mouth. He worked slow, taking his time in easing you toward shallow gasps, ignoring all the while how you rose and fell from the bed in wordless supplication for his touch. It was almost enough to melt away everything that had brought you to this moment, the thrill of him sending heat through your blood, and you became acutely aware of the pounding throb he had sent between your legs; how slick it had already left you.

Then he took his hand away and reached for you, tracing one finger over your slit as he leaned close.

“Look at you,” his voice was barely above a purr at your ear. Unwaveringly gentle, he brought himself to the crux of you; with two fingers he massaged at your clit, adding just enough pressure to make you audibly gasp. “You’re already so wet, mia dolce ragazza.”

You reached for him, dizzy, bringing your touch low and cupping his cock over his jeans. There was nothing to misunderstand in the way you ran your palm over its hard outline, and he laughed, low and breathless and melodic. 

“Soon.” The word came out a hoarse whisper and he pulled back. Still ardent in his touch, he brought his other hand down and slipped in one digit, then two, settling into a rhythm that matched his ministrations. Eagerly you rocked against him, that dazzling ache he had so carefully brought on slowly crawling out from your center to the tips of your fingers. 

“Fammi sapore tua figa, carina,” he murmured. “Voglio farti venire con mia lingua prima do fotteri.”

Fixing you an adoring smile as he winked, he dipped low and replaced his touch with his tongue, ribboning it over and across your clit in a teasing pace before slipping into a speed that drove all coherent thought away from you. Strangling back the gasp that threatened to leave you, your hips twitching at his mouth, you threaded a needy hand through his hair and fixed him in place, helpless against the way he sought to unravel you. Stretching his fingers outward against your walls, he brought them back and pressed down, finally rending you undone. Coupled with your dazed state, so effortlessly had he lowered your defenses that he had made you come all too quickly, crying out as you arched and sank to the bed as tiny little aftershocks jumped through your veins like a chattering pulse.

“Brava ragazza, proprio così.” Landing a quick kiss on the inside of your thigh, he withdrew from you.

Stupefied by the aftermath, you had barely noticed when Gyro had undressed, fishing around in his nightstand with a look of concentration scored deep in his eyes. With a flourish, he brought out a condom, pushing apart your legs with a languid speed that felt nothing short of torturous.

In that moment, to you he was more than attractive: with the flush of his cheeks and disheveled tawny hair falling to his mid-back he was beautiful, slight yet breathtakingly chiseled, the taper of his waist leading to the sharply defined cuts and grooves of his abdomen, the pronounced v-shape at his hips itself a work of art. Uncut with a slight curve to it, his cock stood fully erect; impressive yet not intimidating in its size and length, the wanting it sent through you leaving your mouth dry.

“Remind me,” he whispered, rolling the condom over his length before caressing your cheek as he poised himself above you. “You said I didn’t have to be gentle, or that I did?”

“You don’t.” Struggling to catch your breath, you met his gaze. 

I’m used to it, you almost said. 

“Is that how you like it?” He teased at your entrance, grazing your clit with his cock in a way that made you jump. “Tell me what you want, amore, and I’ll give it to you.”

Easing in slowly, he drank you in as you gasped, your hips rising to meet his and bring him deeper.

“I don’t—I don’t know,” you mumbled.

He grinned, then, burying himself in to the hilt with a soft groan. 

“Then I’ll decide for you tonight.” Taking hold of your hand, he moved within you with a low laugh. “I’m seducing you, after all.”

Not once did he neglect to kiss you, touch you; it was terrifying, how tender he was. Hovering at your ear, he spoke quietly, just barely discernible over the roar of the party outside.

“I’ll be honest,” he stopped long enough to kiss your cheek. “I didn’t tell them you were coming by for any other reason than to get you alone. How we met aside, I haven’t stopped thinking about you since.”

Peripherally you were aware that this is was all part of the act and that he was only telling you what you wanted to hear, but he felt too good to care. You played along, trailing your fingertips down the length of his arm.

“I haven’t either,” you lied.

“Come here,” he murmured, sitting up and pulling you onto his lap, bringing your legs around his waist before thrusting upward and into you. “Put your arms around me.”

With a dazed nod, you wrapped your arms across his shoulders and he brought his around your waist, holding you in place as he rocked his hips into you. With every buck of his hips you felt yourself jolted upward, the head of his cock kissing your cervix, and you moved with him, the friction it awarded your clit dizzyingly electric. He brought a hand to your hair and pulled you into another kiss; his low moan gave way to a lustful growl as he became more ardent, bottoming out with a sudden ferocity that enthralled and shocked you.

Outside, a countdown had begun, an external manifestation of how long before Gyro would bring you to the brink.

Ten.

Nine.

Pleasure coiled and expanded at your core, honey-sweet and ravenous in its threat to devour you.

Eight.

Seven.

“Verrai per me,” Gyro whispered, his voice hoarse.

Six.

Five.

Tossing your head back and summoning every ounce of self-control to keep yourself composed, you fell to pieces in his arms, a smaller yet staggering wave crashing down around you as you climaxed once more.

Four.

Three.

Two.

“Fuck,” Gyro hissed, frenetic and harried as he railed into you. “Sto per venire.”

One.

Drawing you into one more kiss, he twitched and stilled in you with a shuddering moan, jerking his hips upward until he was spent. The roaring din outside drowned him out and he laughed, softly caressing your hair.

“Happy New Year,” he whispered, your shared breath a sobering heat.

“Happy New Year,” you echoed, your mind wandering back to what waited for you at home, an ominous foreboding walling up in the fortress it had erected around your throat. Looking into his eyes, you became acutely aware of the danger you had impulsively thrown Gyro into for no other reason than your own desire to forget.

Chapter Text

Guilt tore at you with thrashing teeth as you stole away while Gyro had left the room, dressing in a hurry and sprinting out the front door at neck breaking speed while no one was looking. You had practically swan dived into your car, fumbling with the seatbelt. Taking shaky breaths, you backed out of the driveway as fast as possible without damaging anything and tore down Middleridge Lane to escape Palos Verdes, to escape the ranch house, to escape everything you had learned and done and put as much distance between you and it as you could.

Traffic was nonexistent; you had gotten on the road right after midnight and right before the parties throughout Los Angeles County began to trickle to a stop. Sober enough to drive, you still evaded every checkpoint you saw coming, fearful that somehow they would look in your eyes and know what you knew. In no time you found yourself walking in slow, measured footsteps that fell muted against the polished wood of the curiously quiet mansion and toward the backyard, shame stinging at your tongue.

I shouldn’t feel bad. Why do I feel bad?

Bringing a halting hand to your lips, numbly you traced over the expanse, the feel of Gyro still on you as you slipped through the sliding glass doors and to the guest house. A faint vibration in your purse signaled yet another text—no doubt well wishes in the new year—and you slowed to a stop once you had gotten through the door, digging through its contents to grab your phone. The name at the immediate top of your notifications made you queasy, sending blood rushing to your head and forcing you to sit down on the couch.

Dio.

You’re home. Come up.

After him was a text from Gyro asking if you had gotten home safely; then, a slew of messages from half of your family and friends. Rounding them out was Diego, requesting that you stop by Taco Bell for him on the way home.

Your response to Dio was one word, short and to the point: No.

Going into Dio’s room right now felt like nothing short of an act of suicide. You could not bring yourself to go back in there and up those stairs, to look Dio in the eye as he lounged back on that monstrous and outdated canopy bed; not now, not after everything. You could still smell Gyro on you, the bubbly scent of champagne mixed heavily with a cologne that smelled like pineapple, birch, bergamot and black currants. 

Dio’s reply was equally short, parroting your own as a question. No?

Setting your phone down, you walked to the shower like a prisoner toward the gallows, stripping down quickly and dumping the contents of your laundry hamper out on the floor to throw them all into the washing machine. With a towel wrapped around your body you started a load of laundry in the wash before going back to the shower, stepping into the water while it was still getting warm. In spirited circles you washed him off of you, raking your fingernails across your scalp to work the shampoo in deep, taking deep breaths to collect yourself as the water blistered down on your back.

Closing your eyes to dip your head back, you thought you heard the faint click of the door being unlocked, dismissing the thought immediately as it came. A gust of cold blew over your skin and you frowned, moving deeper into the water as goose flesh pricked up your skin.

“So,” Dio’s voice was low over the water, your eyes flying open at the sound as a startled scream left you. “How was it?”

He stood propped up in front of the bathroom door, watching you through the shower’s glass with his head tilted to the side. Covering yourself with your hands, you jumped back to the corner of the shower, the tile ice on your skin.

“What the—Jesus fucking Christ, Dio!” 

“I must say, I’m intrigued. Refusing to do as you’re told is not outside the realm of your character, but refusing to do so for something that could easily wait like a shower? Had I not known better, I would say you had something to hide.”

Oh fuck, does he know?! How does he know?!

He smirked, stepping away from the door and toward the glass. “But I did not request your presence out of courtesy to ask trivial questions about your night. I told you to come up as your boss. How did it go with Joseph?”

“Oh—um, it went well.”

Cocking a perfectly arched eyebrow, he took another step closer. “Go on.”

“He said we can start after New Year’s.”

“Good.” Dio took another step closer, lifting his shirt over his head.

What the fuck is this man doing?

Instinctively your eyes swept over the scar at his throat, an involuntary shudder wracking through you with unforgiving brutality. Dio paused, watching you, before undressing and stepping into the shower as panic rose acrid in your throat.

What the fuck is he doing?!

Taking hold of your hand, he brought it to his neck, grazing your fingertips over the scar. Another shudder broke over you, shampoo stinging at your eyes as it washed down from your hair. 

“You know, don’t you?” He spoke softly, sweet and deadly as a knife, beautifully luciferian as the water beat against his chest. The shower was by no means small, but with him in it the space had become claustrophobic; he dominated every inch.

“I—yeah,” you whispered, transfixed. Why had you reacted so violently to it before? Of course he had to take Jonathan’s body. How could he be here now if he had not? You were upset over nothing. “I know.”

“What else did Joseph tell you?” He was calm, coaxing you into speech with the cadence of his voice alone, soothing and comforting like reassurance after a bad dream. Still holding your hand, he drew you perilously close, his proximity disorienting.

“Everything.” The idea that you could tell him anything, everything, and he would treat it with unwavering forgiveness seeped through you, traitorously gentle in its nefariousness. “He told me about what you did to the Joestars, the Stone Masks, the Pillar Men, the—”

“—The Pillar Men?” Still smooth as silk, the slight inflection at the question tugged at you, goading you into an explanation. 

“They invented the Stone Masks,” you breathed, your grasp on the situation shaky. “They were like vampires but way more powerful. One of them, Kars, he was looking for the Red Stone of Aja to become the Ultimate Being with the Stone Mask so he could take over the world and not be killed by the sun.”

“The Red Stone of Aja? Where is it now?”

“I don’t—I don’t know.”

“Of course you wouldn’t, little pet. My apologies for asking. Did he say anything else?”

“He told me about Windknight’s Lot.”

“I see. You did well.” Offering you a dazzling smile, he let go of your hand, tilting your face upward as he bent low, eliminating the distance and holding you to him in a loving embrace. “I should reward you for it.”

Like a brazen punch, the phantom feeling of Gyro’s body entwined in yours shook you, the sweat beaded at his brow as he—that was why you were in the shower, you had slept with him to get the horror of Dio stealing Jonathan’s body—Jonathan’s body, Dio stole his body—why were you acting like that was so normal?

Clarity overtook you and you shoved back at Dio; he did not budge, only raising his eyebrows as he smirked.

“Stop that,” you snapped, backing into the shower wall. “You’re using your weird vampire powers to compel me or something, aren’t you? Get out.”

“Interesting that you figured that out.” Dio laughed, the curve of his canine teeth inhuman and bright in the light. “No matter. You’ve told me everything I needed to know. Almost everything, anyway. Since you so kindly requested for me to not compel it from you, shall I scare the rest out of you instead?”

“What—”

Snatching your wrist with far more strength than he had used the first time, Dio wrenched you back to him and clamped his arm around your waist, forcibly grabbing your chin and tilting your face up. Darkened to a deep ochre, his narrowed stare was petrifying, his lips contorted into a near-snarl.

“What did Joseph—” he cut himself off, studying you with no small amount of suspicion, his scrutiny engulfing you in dangerous red. “You’ve drank quite a bit, haven’t you? Champagne. White wine. I can smell it in your blood. But that’s not all. What is that?”

He dipped low, his lips grazing over the junction of your shoulder. “Apple, patchouli, oak moss? Creed Aventus.”

Sneering, he brought himself up to his full height, imposing and terrifying as he glared down at you. “Why do you smell like men’s cologne?”

“Joseph’s a big fan of bear hugs,” you said meekly; it was not untrue, but it did give you an alibi. “Especially after drinking, I was drenched in it by the end of the night. I figured you’d get the wrong idea if I walked into the room smelling like his cologne. Which shouldn’t even matter, but I do like being alive.”

He stared at you for a long moment and you steeled yourself beneath him; gut instinct screamed that if you were honest and told him about Gyro, both of you would be dead.

“Fair,” Dio said evenly, his expression smoothing over as he let you go. “He would wear far too much of something so tacky and predictable.”

Shaking his head in amusement, he stepped out, drying himself off with your towel and throwing it to the tile floor. “It’s endearing,” he added quietly, pausing as he dressed, “that you were worried I would think you had fucked someone else. But I would not have killed you. That would mean that I cared.”

He laughed as he opened the bathroom door. “I believe Diego is waiting for you. Something about,” Dio frowned in disgust, all traces of his fury forgotten. “Taco Bell?”

Then he left, closing the door behind him; waiting ten minutes, you collapsed into gasping breaths as you steadied yourself, one hand pressed against the damp shower tiles for purchase. Fear rattled your teeth and bones, the water doing nothing to thaw the ice that had stilled your blood. 

What the fuck?

With great care you turned off the shower and stepped out, digging for another towel while the frigid air nipped and tore at your skin, your pulse racing back to life while you dried off and changed into pajamas. Picking up your cellphone, you let Gyro know you had gotten home in one piece and threw the phone onto the loveseat in the living area, the door to the guest house barging open within seconds of it hitting the cushion. The jarring boom it had sent shaking through the space caused you to nearly leap out of your skin; half expecting it to be Dio, you turned to find Diego’s silhouette in its frame.

“Please tell me you brought me food,” he groaned as he stepped in, flipping on the light switch by the door. “I’m bloody starving.”

“I didn’t get your text, sorry,” you said weakly, hastening to dispel the look of outraged disappointment in his eyes. “But I can drive you to Taco Bell or something?”

“Oh, thank God,” Diego sighed dramatically, a hand over his stomach. “I thought I would die of starvation here, there’s no food.”

He paused, cocking his head and sniffing the air. “You reek.”

That alone was enough to make you nervous; Dio was a close call, but Diego somehow knowing would be a different form of agony. One laden with snarky insults and petty jabs, and one you were equally keen to avoid. Adopting an air of annoyance, you put a hand on your hip, glaring at him with narrowed eyes.

“I just showered, what do you mean, ‘I reek’?”

“No,” walking closer, he appeared focused, holding up a finger. “Not like that. You reek like adrenaline. Like you’re afraid.”

“Well, when a five-foot-three werelizard barges through your door, it can scare the shit out of you. Why do you even need Taco Bell? There’s plenty of nice rocks outside.”

“Bring that up again and I will cough up one of them and chuck it at your head. But that’s not why you’re scared, is it? I saw Dio storming in, sopping wet and—oh, gross, again? Good lord, you two need counseling.”

“That’s not what happened, shut up.”

Diego scoffed. “I can smell the change in your pheromones. I know what happened.”

“I didn’t have sex with Dio, will you quit being weird and drop it?”

“Well, aren’t you overly defensive over something you didn’t do?” Diego mused, sitting down on the loveseat. “That’s the first sign of a liar caught in a lie. I’m only asking so I can know when to avoid being near you two. I’d rather not hear you going at it like rabbits again.”

“For the last goddamn time, it wasn’t Dio.”

At that Diego’s eyebrows shot upward. “Curious way to phrase that.”

Oh shit.

“That explains why you’re so angry, Dio interrupted you, didn’t he? Should I leave you to it? As nauseating as it is to know we’ve both intruded on your alone time, I can come back when you’ve finished. Fairly sure the drive-thru will still be open before the water heater gets cold.”

Never mind, I’m safe.

“You’re disgusting,” you muttered, chucking a throw pillow at him.

“Oh, everyone has a wank in the shower, don’t act so puritanical. Plus, I’ve already been far too exposed to your sex life, humor is how I cope with the trauma.”

Mild confusion settled over his eyes and he leaned to the side, pulling your cellphone out from under his knee. 

“That was weird, I thought my phone was going off. You got a text from—” a derisive frown wrenched his lips downward “—Gyro.”

“Here, give me my phone.”

The moment you had reached for it, you knew instantly you had reached for it too quickly; so did Diego, holding it just out of arm’s reach while giving you a long look and stretching back on the couch to read it.

“Why are you acting so weird? It just says ‘I’m glad you got home safely, amore’,” Diego read aloud, confusion steadily gaining in his voice. “‘Next time, let me give you a proper goodbye.’ Why’s he calling you amore, what’s he mean by a ‘proper goodbye’?”

“I don’t know,” you shrugged; hastily, you looked for a way to brush off the topic without looking suspicious. “He has a new nickname for me in Italian every thirty seconds. I’ve went from signorina, to mia cara, to bambina, to I guess amore now. Probably how he talks to every woman he’s ever met that isn’t his mom.”

“That tracks, knowing that knobhead. Honestly, he—” Diego stopped, returning his attention to the screen. Slowly, his stare panned up to you, disgust and horror warring within its depths.

“It was Gyro.”

Handing you back the phone, you looked down at the screen, mortified at the message that waited for you.

I don’t know how I’m supposed to contain myself when you start training with us. Just thinking about the way you taste is making me hard.

“Shut the fuck up,” you hissed as you threw the phone down, lunging for Diego and grabbing him by the collar of his sweater. “Breathe another word and I will fucking end you. I’m like ninety percent convinced Dio has supersonic hearing, the last thing I need is for him to hear you.”

With a scowl, Diego wrestled in your grip, roughly shoving at you in an effort to disentangle himself. “Get your filthy slag hands off my jumper, you lunatic!” 

Bringing him inches from your face, your voice was nearly a snarl. “Not. A fucking. Word. Promise me, Diego, or I leak a blind item that you eat rocks and that you’re a virgin because everything about you is tiny. I don’t know or want to know if that last part is true, but it won’t matter. I will wait until you need more gastroliths, I will film you fucking swallowing them, and I will post them everywhere, and everyone will believe it. Trust me, I know how that world works now, and I know how much you worry about what people think. I can, and I will, bury you.”

“Christ, woman, okay! Not a bloody word! Let me go!”

It took no small amount of restraint to draw yourself back; still, you let him go and he dusted off the front of his sweater, glaring at you. “You didn’t have to go below the belt.”

“Look, sorry or whatever, but Dio finding out would be—”

“—Catastrophic, yeah,” Diego finished. “Which begs the question I am sure I am going to regret asking: why?”

“You know what, I don’t know, okay?” Exasperation weighed down your tongue and you sat next to Diego, falling to the loveseat in a crumpled heap. “I was freaking out about everything with Hamon, and Joseph and Caesar—they told me all about the Pillar Men and the Stone Masks and everything Dio did and I was overwhelmed and he was just right there and I—”

You trailed off, thinking again of Diego’s conspicuously wide smile in the cabin, scratching his throat; this time, you understood.

“You knew. You little shit, you knew.”

“Knew what? I have no bloody clue what you’re even talking about. What the hell is a Pillar Man?”

“Not that,” you snapped. “You knew about Dio, didn’t you? You knew about Windknight’s Lot and Jonathan’s body.”

“I didn’t—no, I did.” Dropping all pretense, he nodded. “I knew everything except the part about his body. That part, I learned at the cabin about two hours before he dragged you off to the basement. Everything else, Dio told me the night I arrived.”

“I asked you. I asked you and you didn’t tell me.”

“Why would I tell you?! I don’t owe you anything! Was I supposed to just stroll up to you and say ‘I know you just fucked my great-great-granddad, but did you know that’s not his body and you fucked Frankenstein’s monster’? Was the massive scar around his neck not a clue?”

“Obviously it wasn’t, since you didn’t know either!”

“I’m not the one who fucked him, I don’t get a close up view of the damn thing!”

“But you knew, and you didn’t say anything! I even asked you, ‘hey, do you know what he stole from Jonathan’? Perfect opportunity to say, ‘I do, actually, his fucking body’! I thought we were friends, I thought you would’ve had the decency to tell me.”

“Since when the hell were we friends? You’re little more than my chauffeur. My assistant by proxy. I don’t care about you.”

“God, you sound like him. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?”

Out of everything, that struck Diego. Eyes burning, he stood up quickly; it was uncanny, the way he had effortlessly channeled how intimidating Dio could be.

“Take that back,” he said threateningly. “Don’t ever compare me to that maggot again.”

“Why not? The comparison’s fitting.”

“You want me to act like him? Fine. Send your little blind item, then. I’ll go ask him how you taste, just to compare notes with Gyro’s input. I’m sure he’d love to hear his commentary.”

Fury vibrated through you, searing black across your vision and pulling you to your feet. One moment, Diego had been standing in front of you, nostrils flared and eyes narrowed; the next, he lay flat on his back on the loveseat, blood pouring from his nose. Blinking, he sat up, touching a hesitant hand to the stream, his eyes wide as they shot over to your fist, cocked back for another strike. Tense silence stilled the air, suffocating in its weight as time seemed to freeze around you both.

You broke it first, rushing to Diego’s side.

“Oh my god, Diego, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t fucking touch me, you fucking cunt,” he growled, shoving you backward with more force than you had anticipated. You stumbled, catching yourself before you collided with the table. “Fuck you.”

He stormed out, slamming the door behind him, one hand clutched over his nose. The moment he was gone, you sat on the couch in a stupor; unsure whether you wanted to cry, throw something, or leave, you settled on horrified silence, staring at the specks of blood at your knuckles until your vision blurred. Not five minutes later, Dio quietly opened the door and slowly walked in front of you, his face inscrutable as he watched you in silence.

When he spoke, his voice was strangely gentle. “Why did you punch Diego?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Or to you.”

“Ah, you’re angry at me.” Dripping with condescension, he gave you a patronizing smirk. “And what have I done this time?”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now? The shower? How about not telling me you attached your head to your dead adopted brother’s body, that you killed? When was that conversation going to happen, Dio?”

“It wasn’t.” Straight to the point, his tone became impassive. “It was over a century ago. I needed a body, he obliterated mine. It was only fair to take his as payment.”

“And Windknight’s Lot? You took over an entire town!”

“In one night,” Dio added, a note of pride hidden beneath the layer of boredom he affected. 

“Why did you send me to them? Why do you want me to learn Hamon?”

“An act of good faith toward a truce I did not wish to enter. Nothing more, nothing less. Do you have any other questions, or is that the last one? I’m bored of this.”

“Then why did you even come in here?”

“To find out why you punched Diego,” he reiterated slowly. “While you didn’t inflict any lasting damage, you did manage to nearly break his nose. Was that dumb luck, or was that genuine skill?”

Shooting a look of pure disdain his way, you lifted your hand. “Want me to show you?”

“While I do enjoy rough play, it’s usually if I’m inflicting it. But I’m sure you looked ravishing in your fury. In any case,” Dio sighed, tossing a haughty hand into the air. “I care little if you and Diego detest each other, but I would rather not be subjected to your petty squabbles every time the two of you are in the same room together. Make peace, will you?”

“Fine,” you groaned; guilt had already prickled its way over your skin, throbbing from your knuckles and radiating outward. You already had intended to try to make it up to Diego somehow, but with Dio telling you to do it made it feel cheap. “I’m not a child, you don’t need to force me to say sorry.”

“Yet you always act like one. Punching people and throwing temper tantrums. Save that energy for something that will be beneficial, it might make you look more mature.”

“I swear, I’ll punch you too.”

Dio stepped around the coffee table, bending forward to your eye level and tracing a finger across the length of your jaw.

“As I said,” he smiled as he tapped your cheek. “Save that energy for something beneficial. I do love it when you’re spirited.”

Pecking your cheek, he straightened himself up and left, the stinging remnant of his lips on your skin making you feel dirty. You rose from the loveseat once he had closed the door, taking your keys and walking through the backyard. From the grass you could clearly make out Diego sitting on the couch, a paper towel held under his nose and violence in his eyes. Dio said something to him over his shoulders as he took to the stairs and Diego held up two fingers in a wide V, his palm facing inward. When he saw you approaching, he scowled and jumped to his feet, quickly stomping up the stairs and disappearing from view. Opening the door just in time to hear his bedroom door slam shut, you could clearly make out Dio’s irritated groan.

Well, at least something good came out of this, Dio’s annoyed.

You walked out the door and headed to the car, making your way to the nearest Taco Bell, exhaustion creeping in slow when you found your place in the absurdly long drive-thru line. In the distance fireworks exploded across the sky, falling to the city below in shimmers of gold and bursts of red. Watching the display, the night in its entirety finally caught up to you in the lull of cars slowly inching forward, everything from Gyro to Dio to punching Diego bounding down on your shoulders and pushing you to collapsing on the steering wheel. A bleating horn rang out; your elbow had grazed the horn, the person in front of you angrily sticking their head out of the car to glare at you.

“Sorry,” you called with genuine contrition, rolling down the window. A lifetime in the city had taught you anything can happen, and a misconstrued honk of a horn could absolutely lead to you getting jumped in a parking lot. “It was an accident, I promise!”

Just fighting off a tiny breakdown in the Taco Bell drive-thru, you know how it is! 

“Oh.” Understanding replaced their anger and they gave you a thumbs up. “You’re good, Happy New Year!”

“You too!” Rolling up the window, you sighed, bringing a hand to your forehead. “I hope this isn’t an omen for what the rest of my year is going to turn out like,” you groaned to no one, rolling to a stop at the speaker and checking the text Diego had sent you earlier, asking to pick him up a Mexican pizza combo. He had not specified a drink and you went with Baja Blast, unsure if he had tried it and sure it would be entertaining to witness if he had not. Otherwise following the order exactly, you paid and went back to the mansion, navigating the streets while batting away the twinge of remorse pushing at you.

It would have been easy to say it was just over the fight with Diego, but it would not be honest. For many reasons, you had felt bad for the kid. Angry and petulant as he may have been, he was just a kid, his whole life uprooted by Dio much in the same way yours had. He had a reason to be angry at the world, just as you did, and who knew what his life had been like beforehand? He had mentioned being in the foster care system in England when you had taken him to see Silver Bullet in what felt like a lifetime ago, and he had no living family left aside from Dio. Poor kid did not deserve to get punched in the face on top of everything else.

But it went beyond him. This entire time, you had tried to shield whoever you could from Dio and in every way, you had failed. You had tried to spare the married couple, only for them to be robbed and brainwashed. You had tried to spare Johnny and Gyro, only for them to be kidnapped and forced into a situation where they were convinced they would die, just to be bargaining chips in Dio’s benefit. And now you had sucked Gyro right back in, and you had no one to blame this time but yourself. However unthinkingly and through nothing but your own selfishness, you had now dragged him into the deep with you and Diego. Fully aware that you had taken advantage of the man, you sighed bitterly and pulled up the driveway, grabbing the bag with an anger directed inward.

Heavy with the weight of your conscience, you slowly climbed the stairs, stopping outside Diego’s door.

“Hey.” Softly, you knocked on the door, your ear pressed to the wood.

“Piss off!” Diego bellowed, a dull thud smacking against the door, closely followed by the sound of something rubbery hitting the floor. 

A long sigh left you, and you shook your head, rustling the bag in your hand. “I’m here to make peace, Diego. I brought you Taco Bell.”

The faint rustle of fabric shuffling against fabric whispered behind the door, accompanied by the padded thud of footsteps across wood. Cracking the door open just a sliver, one blue eye peeking out, Diego stood wary, eyeing you with no small amount of righteous anger. Only when he noticed the bag did he fully open the door, snatching it from you as an Adidas slider pushed itself out from the bottom slit of the door and skittered across the floor. 

“This too.”

Handing him off the drink and biting back a laugh while he examined it, you took a step back. He held it at arm’s length, staring at it as if it would blow up in his face the moment he brought it to his lips, shooting you a sidelong glance and sniffing the lid.

He hasn’t tried it, then.

“Why’s it look radioactive?”

“It’s Baja Blast. It’s pretty good.”

The look of mistrust on his face plainly said he did not believe you. But he did not close the door, watching you in silence and setting the Baja Blast onto a nearby nightstand with the bag still firmly grasped in his hand.

This is a good sign, right?

“Sorry I mangled your face,” you said weakly, the words falling into the silence in a tangled heap.

“Sorry you’re a woman and I can’t beat you to a bloody pulp for it,” he replied bitingly, sneering at you and raising a ginger hand to his nose. “You’ve got a hell of a right hook though, I’ll at least give you that.”

Softening your tone at the display, you gestured to his face. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” Then he gave you a cocky smile, arrogance drawing him up to full. “It’s not that good of a right hook.”

“We cool?”

Sifting through the contents of the bag, he nodded. “…Yeah, for now. But you’re on thin ice, woman.”

“I’ll take it,” you said with a grin, turning back to the stairs. “‘Night, Diego.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

He shut the door and you walked downstairs, ready for the night to finally be over. When you had sank to the bed, weariness turning your limbs to lead, the screen of your phone lit up from the nightstand, a beacon of blue-white in the dark.

It was Diego.

Are you sleeping?

Raising an eyebrow, you sent a quick response and waited. 

…Why?

Don’t text Gyro.

The message sent you into high alert; Diego was nothing if not vindictive, and you had seen the fruits of that vindictiveness before. Sitting up in bed, you typed back as quick as your fingers would allow, biting down on your lip.

Diego what did you do

Anxiety pounded through you as the blinking ellipses icon popped up, the time before his reply agony.

Nothing! Just don’t do anything stupid, that’s all. I’d rather not go to your funeral.

Barking out a surprised laugh, you stared at it for a moment, shaking your head.

“He really is just a kid,” you whispered at the screen.

Love you too, buddy.

Sarcastic as the sentiment may have been, you could still picture his face, the disgusted slit-eyed sneer he would have given you if you had ever said that aloud in his vicinity. 

I’m blocking your number forever. Bye

Laughing in relief and fervently grateful that at least one thing had went right tonight, you set your phone on the nightstand and fell back to the bed, the exchange a small reprieve from the nightmare that had been the early hours of the new year.

Chapter Text

He had sought out the curio shop in Silver Lake once dusk had given way to full dark, the cold air leaving stinging bites along his cheek as he walked into its gusts, life teeming around him in an endless blur. Tucked snugly in a strip mall between a plant-based juicery with a paneled facade of reclaimed wood and a fusion ramen joint painted like bleached bone, the storefront stood untouched by the gentrification around it. Once a liquor store, its security camera remained broken—unbeknownst to anyone but Dio himself that he had broken it with his Stand weeks ago to not draw attention to himself—its glass doors were etched with graffiti scratched into it with paper clips and x-acto blades and the splatter of indiscernible body fluids left by junkies long since passed, caked against the backdrop of an iron gate behind the window and the cracked pavement. It was a ghost of what Silver Lake had once been, a dreaded reminder to those who had encroached its streets long before he walked them that this hipster-bloated enclave of Los Angeles had once been considered the wrong side of the 101. 

Perhaps that was what drew him to it upon his reemergence into this world a mere four months ago; it was as out of place amongst the glittering throng as he had been then, drawing in wayward souls eager to cleanse themselves of negative vibrations with pretty rocks and promising answers in a murky future through the decks of the major and minor arcana due to its “character.” But Dio had known better—as a child, so long ago he had walked the streets of London among the paupers and ruffians seeking alms and found himself in the company of Wang Chan, purchasing poisons to defy his fate. So drawn had he been to the occult that he embodied it, from the marks on his earlobe to the fangs in his mouth, and it was as a part of him as his eyes and tongue.

Unlike the shop’s security cameras, the rest remained intact, silently keeping vigil over the mostly empty parking lot. Out of a pronounced sense of self-preservation, Dio brought out The World long enough to break them.

He had been reckless in Cairo, but that recklessness had taught him well. 

When he had made it to the door, it was just in time to see a young man walking out with his phone pressed to his ear, immersed in conversation as a gnarled hand flipped a sign in the window from “open” to “closed” behind him.

“Girl, I told you, it’s because my Mercury is in Scorpio, and—wow,” he sucked air in through his teeth as he had looked up at Dio, his prettily-made up eyes making their way down his frame. Subconsciously, he had slowed his pace, turning toward him as they crossed paths; by the time he had passed him, he had his back turned to the direction he had been walking and slowed to a stop.

“I’ll call you back,” he had whispered as he hung up, tucking the phone into the purse slung over his shoulder and giving Dio a wide smile. A smirk crawled over his lips and he had quietly motioned for him to wait; wordlessly, he did so, the flick of Dio’s wrist enough to leave him spellbound.

The hand in the window froze.

“Oh! Lord Dio! Come in, come in,” a shrill voice had cawed, opening the door for him and switching off the security sensors.

“Enyaba,” he had greeted in a tone that was almost warm, and he stepped inside.

The crone stood across from him now, two withered right hands colored and creased like the knotted roots of a rotting tree splayed out on the glass countertop as she listened to him intently, nodding as he recounted the way the Arrow had spun in his hand. In the dim light her weathered face drooped like a Dali clock while her bulbous eyes shone bright and wild, the flesh bud at her hairline wriggling from the proximity to its host as a reedy laugh wheedled itself from her toothless maw. 

“The Arrow,” she cackled, “knows where to strike, Lord Dio. If it spun toward the girl, then she has the potential.”

“So she will survive, then?” He resented the note of concern that had snuck itself into his voice, one that had not went unnoticed by Enya. “If I use the Arrow on her, she’ll survive?”

“Probably. Why does it matter if she does?”

Why did it matter?

“Should she survive, she may prove invaluable.” Forcing detachment behind the words, he lifted a heavy crystal globe from the display counter and turned it in the sun light, watching the refractions it threw against the walls with vague interest. “She has already served a greater purpose than she knows. Tell me, Enyaba. Have you been able to track down any Stone Masks?”

“No,” Enya squawked, shaking her head, the stringy threads of her white hair bouncing in disarray. “Looks like the Speedwagon Foundation obliterated most of them during the 1940s with the help of Joseph Joestar and Caesar Zeppeli. But I’ve heard from my son and his partner that there may still be one in Mexico. They’re looking into it now.”

“There’s something else,” he murmured, setting the crystal down and picking up a copper dowsing rod. “The Red Stone of Aja. Have you heard of it?”

“I can’t say I have. Why?”

“If you can, send your son and his partner to investigate its whereabouts once they track down a Stone Mask. They’ll want to start in Italy, near Air Supplena Island.”

“Lord Dio,” Enya looked nervous; she had the wherewithal to understand she was asking too many questions. “Isn’t Air Supplena Island a tourist resort?”

“More or less,” Dio answered. His research into the public life of Joseph Joestar had came to an end at Air Supplena Island; that, he assumed, was where the final confrontation between he and the Pillar Men had unfolded, leading to his withdrawal from the vox populi. “But it doubles as a training ground for Hamon users and is still owned by the Joestar Realty Group. If he’s as shrewd as that oafish persona he affects leads me to believe, then he knows where the Red Stone of Aja is. I need that stone, Enyaba. Procure it for me at any expense.”

“Of course, Lord Dio,” she nodded fervently, rubbing her hands together. “Anything else?”

“One last thing, yes.” He set down the dowsing rod and tilted his head, rooting Enya to the spot. In his mind he could clearly picture the way the Arrow had swung toward him in his palm, its pull undeniable and its meaning elusive. “Can a Stand be evolved? Say, for example, I was to drive the Arrow through your neck. Would your Stand evolve into something greater?”

“That depends on the Arrow,” Enya stepped back from the counter and shuffled toward the doorway leading to the back room. Returning with two arrows in hand, she set them down on the counter for him to examine. One was made of simple gold, intricate markings carved into the arrowhead, and the other was inlaid with an intricate sculpture of a beetle that looked identical to the one hanging in his bedroom.

“This,” she tapped her finger onto the plain arrow, her eyes swiveling up in their sockets to meet Dio’s. “Is a regular Stand Arrow, which will give the one who is pierced by it a Stand. This,” she tapped the arrow with the beetle next, her mouth wide in a void like smile. “Is a Requiem Arrow. If the person pierced with it can take the transformation, it will give their Stand the Requiem ability. But that isn’t the only way. There’s one other.”

Snatching the arrows back up into her hands, she disappeared into the back room, returning moments later with a small, square wooden box. With a demented flourish she cracked it open, revealing two withered yet perfectly preserved eyes ensconced in emerald velvet. In the irises the word “TURBO” shone bright and they seemed to stare at Dio, their unflinching examination piercing through him. Enya watched in satisfaction as genuine surprise lifted his brow and widened his eyes, snapping the lid shut as Dio unconsciously reached for them.

“The Saint’s Corpse. This is the eyes. On they’re own they won’t do much, but if one were to unite all of the parts and absorb them into themselves, they would have power beyond comprehension. The World already stands alone in speed, strength and agility, but fusing yourself with all of the Corpse Parts and piercing yourself with the Requiem Arrow would elevate it to something unconquerable. The Ultimate Stand.”

The words left him in one hushed breath. “Where are the rest of the Corpse Parts?”

“That, I can’t tell you. No one knows. The only people that ever came close to finding them were a president and a mafioso named Diavolo, and both of them are dead now. But I can send someone to start looking into their tracks.”

Dio turned his back and strode to the door, pausing with his hand on the metal handle. In a commanding tone, its timbre gentle as cashmere draped over steel, he spoke to the crone over his shoulder.

“I’ll return tomorrow night for the eyes. Keep your son and his partner searching for any remaining Stone Masks and the Red Stone of Aja and start researching the whereabouts of the rest of the Corpse Parts. I can find others to aid the search. You know how to contact me should there be any developments. Exhaust any method available to you, money is no issue.”

As if she had a choice in the matter.

Outside, the man waited, caught between anticipation and impatience, his teeth rattling in his skull from the chill of the night air as he raked his hands over his shivering arms in a vain attempt to warm them. Dio went to him slowly, smoothly donning the cultivated veneer he had mastered, his effortless smile of seduction cloaking his intentions beneath.

“I feel like I’ve seen you on TikTok.” Flustered, the words left him in a cold breath, trapped in the solid vapor exhale that stole past his lips. “You’re from TikTok, right?”

That app is good for something, at least.

“You waited,” he drawled, tilting his head. Feigning concern, he let his gaze drop to the man’s hands, lingering for a brief moment over the vein throbbing in his neck. “You’re cold.”

“I don’t mind.” He smiled nervously, an awkward shrug lifting his shoulders. 

“Oh, but I do. I feel terrible, making you stand out here in the cold for so long.” Dio drew closer, the thrum of the man’s heartbeat accelerating into a tantalizing pound. “I’m sure your apartment is far warmer than it is out here. Why don’t we go to it?”

The man brightened considerably at the suggestion, and Dio swept one last covert peek at the security cameras, the lenses of every one shattered to his satisfaction. 

Dio draped an arm around his shoulders, fixing him an adoring smile. “Shall we go to your car?” 

He led Dio to a battered Honda Civic and unlocked the car. Once they had both sat down and shut the doors, Dio moved quickly, plunging his fingers up to the knuckles into the man’s neck and sighing in content as the blood in his veins drew itself to his touch. Around the wound, the skin began to tighten and pull, greying into ash as the life left him. Nothing short of euphoric, the rush it brought to him far sweeter than any wine and far more intoxicating than any drug, it knocked Dio back into the seat and he groaned, drunk on blood and the thrill of taking in life itself until it stilled to his touch. 

Beside him, the man’s lifeless body collapsed into a slumped heap.

“Sorry about that,” Dio murmured thickly, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest as he turned to the corpse. “Actually, no. I’m not sorry at all. It’s been so long since I’ve truly fed, and tonight I’m celebrating. What shall I do next to herald in my coming ascension? Shall I take my beautiful assistant to my bed, and—”

He stopped short, anger enveloping him with such brute force that he had to collect himself. The information she had given him the night before had largely eclipsed her duplicity; he had nearly forgotten the threnody of terror singing in her veins when he had bent low, her body warmed by the water as she shook in his grasp, champagne and pinot grigio and sex and cologne exuding from her pores like sweat. That cologne had been familiar to him, tied to the sound of broken glass and the racing heartbeat of Gyro Zeppeli as he reached for his throat.

He had forgotten but he remembered it now, and the memory of it alone had brought him to the precipice of madness.

“—No,” he said to the corpse, preternaturally quiet. “But perhaps you might offer me some insight as to what I should do. Why don’t we say you’re a vampire, you had just spent a century and a quarter trapped in a coffin in the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, and while still gaining your bearings you had lost your composure around a pretty girl at a bar. You were fully intending to kill her much in the same way I’ve just killed you, and instead found yourself sparing her life. And while that decision has brought on endless headaches for you, you’ve justified it for a myriad of reasons. To keep her happy and keep those headaches at bay, you have done everything from give her a home and so much money that she could live seven lifetimes and never need to work again, to making peace with your sworn enemies.”

He shifted his weight in the seat, inching closer to the corpse. “Of course,” he whispered, conspiratorial. “You do benefit from all of those actions as well, far more than she might. They’ve led you to obtaining a Stand, then put you on the path toward procuring artifacts like the Saint’s Corpse and the Red Stone of Aja, both of which will afford you invincibility and boundless potential. But deep down you know, as advantageous as it was to you, you had done it to redeem yourself in her eyes. Although she defies you time and time again, you’ve come to see her true nature—her detestable faith in good, her boundless and insipid compassion, her capacity toward forgiveness, her strength and resilience and how she adapts and thrives like a rose among weeds. And you admire her for it.”

The admission was acrid and brittle on his tongue, yet rang true. Stretching back into the seat, he sighed.

“Now you’ve found yourself thinking of her when you wake, listening for her as she walked through the halls. It perplexes you and infuriates you, and that infuriation culminates into some of the best sex you’ve ever had—even if it had been, by your own standards, rather tame. Then you realize the following night, as she falls asleep beside you, it was because it was with her. You find yourself draping blankets over televisions after watching boring films that terrify her and walling yourself off in your room because her mere presence makes you feel as if you’re burning alive. All of this, for a woman you would have been better off killing in the back seat of her car.”

Another, longer sigh left him, and he cast his gaze to the roof of the car.

“To compensate for your repeated lapses in judgment decide that having her in proximity to your enemies is a good thing solely for the information you can glean from her—and it, too, works to your benefit—but there is a drawback you failed to anticipate. They turn her against you. There was always a spark of disdain for you in her eyes, but now there’s fear. That capacity to forgive has been exhausted. To her, you’re a monster. You are the villain in her story, you are the monster under her bed. And that sends her running into someone else’s. You can smell him on her no matter how hard she had tried to wash him off, and she lies to you about it, as if you’re nothing more than a fool.”

Shaking his head, Dio propped his elbow onto the center console and pointed to the corpse. “What do you do? Do you kill her? Do you kill him and make her watch? Do you kill them all? Or do you spare them, driving yourself deeper into your own torment, because the thought of causing her any more suffering is intolerable?”

He stopped then, his mouth dry.

“What do you do? Why does the weight of her actions feels like you’ve been gutted, leaving you in agony? Why do you defy your own instinct and nature for her? Is it merely infatuation? Is it limerence, as ephemeral as snowfall, and will pass with the seasons? Or is it far more insidious?”

Dropping his voice to a whisper, he closed his eyes, resigned to the truth.

He knew.

“You love her. Perhaps you’re not in love, but you love her. That’s why this feels like a grievous wound, an unforgivable betrayal. You love her, and that love has exposed in you a weakness. You have no one to blame but yourself, do you?”

Love. That feeble, laughable, cursed little thing, one that could lead even the most indomitable and fearsome of creatures to ruin; a pitiful and dangerous little thing that he had closed himself off to long ago. It was not as if the feeling was unknown or foreign. On the contrary, it was was one he knew well, one he rightfully acknowledged as his enemy. His mother’s love had trapped him in a dirt-caked hovel with that bastard Dario until he had brought about his well-deserved and unceremonious end. His mother was saintly in her devotion, weathering every blow from his father’s clenched fists. She had loved Dio, too, and he had loved her in turn. 

Then she had died, worked to death by his father, and Dio was forced to sell her best dress to buy alcohol for the piece of shit that had never deserved her before she had even went cold. Love did not spare her from death or pain no matter how she had clung to it, convinced that love without condition would guarantee her a place in Heaven. He had turned away from love in that consignment shop in London all those years ago, embracing the rage and hate that had consumed him.

Now here he sat, in a gentrified parking lot in Silver Lake, undone by it.

Scowling, he reached out his hand and seized hold of the corpse’s head, dashing it into the driver’s side window with such brutality that the glass cracked beneath the blow, brain matter spilling over his fingers like yolk from a cracked egg.

“Why am I asking you? You’re dead.”

He wrenched the car door open and threw himself into the night, drenching himself in sobering cold. From across the parking lot he could make out Enyaba’s stooped frame as she turned the key in the lock, her sagging mouth open as she turned her gaze to Dio licking blood and brain matter from his palm.

“Enyaba,” he called, crooking his finger forward and beckoning her to him. “Dispose of this. Make sure no trace of it is left.”

“Of course, Lord Dio.”

Collecting himself, he drifted west down Sunset and toward the promontory overlooking Bel Air and the most sought after expanse of Los Angeles—toward her, toward her lies and her hate and her eyes that burned like that last sunrise he had watched climb over the waterways of Liverpool before he was barred from its light forever. He walked until his skin had been numbed by the wind, his mind heavy with blurred thoughts of red stones, desiccated limbs and the stench of sweat and Creed Aventus. He walked oblivious to the prying eyes that drank him in, first in adoration then horror as they swept over his bloodied arm, the minutes succumbing to hours. He walked praying that he would fall prey to exhaustion he knew would never come, just to grant him reprieve; instead, all the walk did was sober him.

He walked in to find her sitting there on the couch, feet tucked under her and to the side, laughing with Diego at a movie on the screen.

“Oh,” she drew into herself instantly, mirth leaving her at his arrival. Fear thudded heavy in her veins; beside her, though appearing aloof, Diego grew tense. “You’re back. Where’d you go?”

“Diego.” His name left his tongue as a command, snapping Diego to attention as he walked past them to the kitchen and began washing his hands. “Leave us.”

Though he could not see it, he could hear and feel it—the long, nervous stare Diego had given her before swallowing down spit with a nod, bolting up from the couch and to his room. When they were alone, he turned to her, hating the touch of sunlight it brought him. A wave of concern poured over her features; it was clear it was mainly for herself, yet another name lurked beneath it, whispered through the rush of her blood and the grit of her teeth.

She took a step forward, then another, closing the distance between them with worry in her eyes and terror in her heart.

“Is something wrong? You look pissed. If this is about the thing with Diego, we squashed that, we’re cool now. You don’t need to be mad.”

“No,” he said softly; he clung to anger as it threatened to leave him, something even more foreign than love stinging at the back of his throat.

“Oh. Well. That’s good. Cool. Did uh, did everything go okay when you were out? You didn’t get in a fight or anything, did you?”

Thinking of the corpse in the car, he shook his head. “It went well.”

“So…” Swaying on the balls of her feet while trailing into silence, she scratched at her neck, chewing at the skin of her lip. Her gaze traveled around the room before settling just beside his ear; not looking him in the eye, she had picked a place where she was sure he could be tricked into thinking he was. “Did you need to talk to me about something?”

She’s afraid.

Fear had always been so sweet in his victims; from her, it felt like bile coating his teeth.

Let her be afraid. Let her suffer for all of this.

The loathsome pang in his stomach that shot through him as he watched her nervously sway was equally horrific and foreign to him. Although sure he knew why he had felt it, though he detested what he was sure he knew, he had to know. Unequivocally know, once and for all, if it was that hateful little thing that spurned the guilt in his heart; that barbaric thing he had spoken aloud to the corpse in the car.

Let me suffer too, for my own carelessness.

It was an endeavor into masochism that moved his feet, a way to know once and for all. He severed the distance that remained and surrendered to her immolation, bringing himself to kiss her long enough to feel something crack in his chest. When it had he let her go, both in touch and in heart, leaving her standing in the middle of the living room bewildered and shaken as he climbed up the staircase; barricading himself in the sanctuary he had built in the geometric prison where he lived, he felt leagues and lifetimes away from where he stood. Reality slipped from him, and he was not the early weeks of the year 2022 in Los Angeles. He was falling to the Atlantic seabed in an ornate coffin lined with ruby silk, sinking to the depths of the scratch in his throat for the second time in his life unending, and giving it a name—grief.

He had been right after all.

“You fool,” he hissed, locking the bedroom door and bringing a hand to his face as he stared at himself in the mirror. “What have you done?”

He allowed himself to succumb to grief for a moment. Only a moment, infinitesimally small and puerile, did he let it gnash and gnaw and fester in him before he cut it from himself like a gangrenous limb, taking with it in its severance the amelioration of her touch and the sunrise in her eyes. Dio may have kissed her, touched her, tasted her, but she was not his—and she could never be now, not with the threat she posed to him. She was the physical manifestation of his undoing, and so he let her go in that moment. Then he straightened himself up, sighed, and began rifling through his TikTok and Instagram messages, wading through the sea of lewd rhapsodies and images until he found something interesting enough to engage with long enough to clear his head, rationalize his thoughts, and move ten steps ahead. 

She had served a purpose for him, one that was still being realized if the conversation with Enya proved true. She still was of use to him. Outside his machinations she was a competent enough assistant—artfully she dodged requests that would bring the world too close to the truth while fulfilling the ones that kept the world interested, effectively moving through it for him in the hours he was confined to his room. And she had given him a way to potentially free himself from that confinement forever, to transcend his own status as a being far above man and to something untouchable, to feel the sun on his skin once more.

She had served a purpose and continued to serve it; killing her would do no good. Having her fear him, however, would do nothing for him either, and thought it vexed and infuriated him, for that reason Gyro had to live as well. He had to maintain the veneer of detached calm, as much as the thought of Gyro’s hands touching her made him want to scream. He would have to continue pretending he did not know.

For now, he thought darkly, sneering. 

Diego, he understood the moment he had left the room, knew. That he did not tell Dio was unsurprising—he was as clear a reflection of himself as if Dio had pulled him out of a mirror and scaled down his height, disseminating information would not be something Diego did freely nor without gain. What had surprised him was the twinge of sympathy he had picked up on as Diego had walked up the stairs and to his room, the strange sense of allegiance he gleaned from Diego as astounding as his own turmoil. Diego had developed an attachment to her, however subconsciously; his own mirror image indeed, right down to those he chose to let in. That, Dio had surmised, could pose an issue in the future.

He decided to leave it alone. Such petty, trivial things like this were beneath him.

For now.

In his messages a priest caught his eye, and he began to read.

Chapter Text

As the weeks went by, they came in droves.

Like a parade of curios Dio had painstakingly collected, faces popped up around the estate, each person as questionably bizarre as Dio himself. How Dio had met them, who they were, and why they were there all remained unclear, but none of them seemed too keen to leave. The pattern played out exactly the same each time: Dio would disappear for the night, well-dressed and with a cocky swagger that was both impressive and off-putting, returning just before dawn with some stranger at his side. Then, during the day, hushed conversations whispered their way from behind the door, nigh indiscernible and fervent; the moment you lingered for too long to try to make it out, it would die off and Dio would tell you to leave.

When it became clear that the mansion had adopted a revolving door policy, you and Diego teamed up and indulged in a new shared past-time: people watching. Taking notes on the faces that cropped up most frequently, the two of you would bandy around theories as to what Dio had brought them for and why they were so eager to be in Dio’s presence, fawning over him as if they worshipped him like a god.

The first face that had begun to crop up with frightening regularity was that of a gnarled old crone, stooped over in stature with wild bulging eyes and a mess of untamed snow-white hair that spoke in a screeching howl. Foul mouthed and peculiar, she sported a bandage that fully covered her left hand, trailing after Dio wherever he walked. Touting an ego that rivaled Dio’s own, she had taken quite quickly to barking orders and insults at you and Diego with indiscriminate venom, hurling the commands like a barrage of flechettes, and never seemed to leave. Enyaba, he had called her; Diego had taken to calling her Baba Yaga in turn, and by the third day you and Diego agreed without hesitation that you hated her immensely.

The next was a sycophantic and arrogant man with a long mane of chestnut brown hair and horrible fashion sense that had made an equally horrible impression on you and Diego. Dressed in shades of purple and carrying himself like a cartoon villain from the eighties, he had called himself Vanilla Ice, a name had you both found comically silly. Convinced the name was not real, Diego had prodded at him throughout the daylight hours for his real one; by nightfall, Dio had sharply instructed him to leave the man alone, and both you and Diego had concocted a string of names to mock the man with in response.

Then there was Mariah, a striking woman with silver hair and eyes the color of milled wheat that shone bright against the rich sepia of her complexion—without fail, Diego’s eyes wandered in her direction wherever she walked, a dazed look on his face, and whenever she would catch it she would smirk, pretending to drop something and bending down to retrieve it. She, you had caught on rather quickly, seemed amused by the whole ordeal, rolling her eyes at Enyaba’s grating voice and watching you with a pronounced curiosity when Dio would speak to you about work.

Along with Mariah came Midler, statuesque and sour with her long black hair and blue sundress, her full lips permanently drawn into a sharp pout; the delicate set of her features remained forever at war with her abrasive and bombastic personality, and she stuck to her companion like glue. With bowed heads they would whisper to each other, pointing at Enyaba or Vanilla Ice while tittering behind their hands, and when the evening would wear down into late night they would rise from the couch or the fire pit and float up the stairs to the second floor, giggling before storming down the staircase moments later, their faces warped in matching displays of scorned disappointment.

Yet, confusingly, he would allow his hand to rest on the small of Midler’s back or Mariah’s shoulder for far too long when he would realize you were nearby, watching you with an indecipherable smirk as they gasped and simpered, gauging your reaction as he would hover low at their ear and whisper. It felt like a taunt, a bid to stir some sort of jealousy in you; that strange kiss when he had walked through the door with his hand covered in viscera and abruptly disappeared still lingering in his stare. Perplexing and pointed in nature, it served only to annoy you and you would roll your eyes, focusing your attention on the laptop Dio had provided once he had deemed working solely through your phone insufficient.

Most confusing of all, Dio had became acquainted with a middle aged priest named Pucci, and on the days where Pucci stayed in the mansion it was a rare moment to not see him at Dio’s side. Like a lost puppy dressed as the grim reaper, he trailed after him in his long black coat trimmed with gold, the buzzed lines in his white hair and the rat tail down his back making him look more like a Kingdom Hearts villain than a man of the cloth. For hours, Dio and Pucci would talk; there had been multiple occasions where he would bring you in during these conversations long enough to pass down menial tasks to preserve his online following, barely breaking stride in his train of thought as he would rhapsodize about art, philosophy, and physics—at one point he had point-blank asked Pucci if he had believed in gravity, glaring daggers at you when you had bit back a laugh while Pucci, in absolute seriousness, nodded.

When you had told Diego about the conversation with Pucci in the backyard, he showed far less restraint, laughing uproariously.

“‘Do you believe in gravity’,” he had mocked, slipping into a terrifyingly accurate mimicry of Dio’s voice, right down to the inflection on how he had said gravity. “Is he a flat earther, now? He’s already got his TikToks, what next, a podcast about government conspiracies? What a pretentious bellend.”

One Saturday afternoon in early February, Diego abruptly demanded you take him to get food, striding purposefully toward the car with unparalleled impatience and yanking on the door handle until you had unlocked it for him. He had remained silent in the car ride save for the errant complaint about the music—“you’re a grown woman, why do you have the taste of a sad fourteen year old on Tumblr?”—and demanding that wherever you had went, it would be somewhere out of the way and low key. Shooting down every other suggestion you had made, ultimately you dragged him to a Norms in Encino, not bothering to hide your amusement as he took in the retro interior decorated in violent shades of orange against muted brown with the air of a man at his first zoo. Once you were settled into an uncomfortable leather booth and had put in your orders, Diego leaned over the Formica table, nearly knocking over the cup of water the server had just set down in his eagerness.

“They’re all Stand users,” Diego immediately said in a low voice, the intensity in his eyes staggering while he gesticulated wildly with his hands. “All of them. Mariah, Ice Lolly, Midler, Baba Yaga, those weird brothers with the face plates, that one guy that looks like the Marlboro Man. They’re all Stand users. Even the bloody priest is a Stand user.”

Raising an eyebrow, you glanced around the booth to make sure no one was listening. “Seriously? What makes you think so?”

“Stand users attract other Stand users,” he replied, pantomiming moving an invisible object toward another. “They all met him on TikTok and Instagram except Baba Yaga, she owns an occult book shop in Silver Lake. I was talking to Mariah about it for a bit the other day and put the rest together myself.”

Wiggling your eyebrows suggestively, you grinned at Diego. “Mariah, huh?”

He scoffed and rolled his eyes in response, slumping back in the booth. “Oh, come off it, it’s not like that. She only told me what she did because she thinks I’m Dio’s kid brother, and I knew she would because she’s trying to do everything in her power to get that man to notice her.”

From his posture alone you could glean the underlying truth: she had soundly rejected him in favor of Dio, and this was what he had come up with to save face.

Sighing, he became serious, eyeing you carefully while clearly looking for the best way to phrase what he was planning to say. “I’m rather keen on not getting decked in the face again, so it’s time I be honest: I haven’t exactly been truthful as to why I came here.”

“Not surprising.” Confusion took over his features and you shrugged. “You Brando boys sure do love your secrets.”

Giving you a warning look, Diego went on, glossing over the jab. “He brought me here not because I was his descendant, but because he suspected that I was a Stand user—”

“—I knew that, actually—”

“—Hang on, I’m not finished.”

Raising a hand to silence you, he continued. “He offered me wealth and power, should I ally myself with him. That’s the only reason I’ve stayed here, because I stand to gain from it. No doubt he’s promising them the same.”

That you had not known, and you watched Diego in silence, searching for any tells that he may have been lying and finding none. No scratching at his neck, no uncannily wide smile, no overly emphatic tone; nothing at all indicated that he was being anything other than honest. When he was satisfied you had absorbed everything he had said, Diego took a sweeping, furtive glance around the restaurant and continued.

“He’s plotting something. Now, exactly what he’s plotting, I don’t really know. But he’s amassing a following of Stand users for a reason, and I’d wager we’ll be seeing more of them waltzing right in soon. So whatever it is, it can’t be good.”

Tiny specks of goodness did shine through in Diego like glints of gold in a long-polluted creek from time to time, his change of heart at the cabin the best example. It was no longer surprising to see that side of him. But that speck of goodness was always self-serving no matter how he would try to spin it, and he never for a moment would play his hand so readily, let alone throw all his cards in the table for you to read. His reveal did not leave you reeling in astonishment. What mystified you was why he had decided to draw back the curtain and let you in.

Until you remembered who you were dealing with.

With a deep sigh, you sat back in the booth, the reason so embarrassingly simple that you were almost mad you had not caught on instantly. Like Dio, Diego was partial to the finer things in life, never deigning to let anything other than designer clothes touch his skin; on several occasions you had heard him bitching about thread counts and having to change his own sheets.

“You’re telling me this because you think that if this is what’s going on, you’re going to get a reduced cut of the profits, don’t you?”

There was no shame nor denial in Diego’s eyes, and he gave an airy shrug. “Of course it is. I was here first and I’ve put in my time suffering for it, I’m not letting a bunch of layabouts thirsting over Dio encroach on what’s mine. And what do you mean, ‘if that’s what he’s doing’? Have you forgotten who Dio is? That’s exactly what he’s doing.”

“Diego,” you propped your head up with your hand, suddenly weary. Nearly three months with the two Dios had begun making their mark on you, and this conversation proved the best example. “What exactly am I supposed to do with all this information?”

“Tell the Joestars,” he answered, giving you a look that clearly indicated he thought it was obvious. “I can’t bloody well do it, can I? They’d never buy it. And aren’t you supposed to be learning Hamon from them anyway? What’s happened with that?”

“Well,” you trailed off awkwardly as the server returned to take your orders, picking up where you had left off when she was out of earshot. “I haven’t spoken to any of them since New Year’s Eve.”

“Ah,” with a slow nod, Diego leaned back in the booth. “Not since you fucked Gyro, you mean. You know, you didn’t have to take my advice about not texting him that close to heart. Has Dio mentioned that to you at all? The Hamon thing, not Gyro. Your secret is still unfortunately safe with me.”

“No,” you answered, picking up a straw wrapper and rolling it into a ball. “I haven’t talked to him unless it has to do with work.”

The way Dio had seemed so off before the house had begun filling up sprang to mind at the disconnect; the agitation in his voice and the scathing intensity in his eyes that bordered on unhinged. Though inklings of it had begun cropping up when you had returned from the cabin, neither of you ever quite able to look each other in the eye, on New Year’s Eve it had been most apparent; by the second day into the New Year, Dio had changed overnight, cold and detached as if nothing had happened save for the occasional taunting glare. That had marked the shift in the paradigm, that was when the house began to fill and Dio had become unrecognizable.

Falling silent as the server brought your food, Diego slipped into an effusively polite demeanor and thanked her profusely, his eyes lingering a bit too long on her lips and the high set of her cheekbones and the strands of hot pink hair falling out of her ponytail for it to go unnoticed—it was the nearly the same way he had looked at Mariah, a slight rosy flush coloring his cheeks—waiting until after she had left to spear into the flat swathe of hash browns dominating half his plate with his fork and shovel them into his mouth, covertly looking around the diner while he chewed slowly.

“What kind of a name is H.P, do you think?” Diego said with his mouth full, covering it with his hand. “The server, that was their name. Think it’s because their hair is hot pink?”

The last thing on your mind was what your server’s name could have been. Your thoughts felt like a half-finished jigsaw puzzle, and you were trying to figure out where the swift change had fit. Looking Diego in the eye, you gently pushed aside the burger and fries you no longer felt hungry for and rested your elbows on the table, interlocking your fingers and resting your chin atop them in deep thought.

“Did he seem off to you after we got back from Lake Arrowhead?”

Swallowing down the mouthful of hash browns and grabbing a glass of water, he raised an eyebrow, noticeably off-put by the change in your behavior.

“I don’t know. I’ve been avoiding the man since that trip. Have you noticed anything different, do you think something else happened there?”

“Not there. After. You know how he came home on New Year’s Day and looked pissed?”

“Right before he demanded I go into the room, yeah,” Diego said dryly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“I think something happened there. He was already being weird, but after he sent you upstairs he just like, up and kissed me and then bolted to his room. But it was off. He was giving really weird one-word answers looked like…not remorseful, that doesn’t seem like the right word. Conflicted, maybe? Like it was a goodbye. But like, I have no fucking clue what that was about.”

Diego looked thoughtful, the expression briefly morphing into something akin to nausea when you dipped a French fry in a container of ranch dressing and took a bite, not out of hunger but out of the need to do something.

“Dunno what to tell you about that one. More importantly though, what utter sacrilege have you inflicted upon that chip, you lunatic?”

Squinting in disgust, he pointed to your plate, his stare swiveling from it to you and back to the plate again, the corners of his mouth wrenched sharply downward.

“How is dipping a French fry in ranch sacrilege but calling it a chip isn’t? And you know what, it’s good, don’t judge—no, whatever, that’s not important right now. He was being weird the night before, too. Like when he cornered me in the shower—”

“—Oh God,” Diego groaned. “I don’t want to know but I’m still going to ask, what exactly did happen with that? And please,” he gave you a pleading look. “Spare me the gory details.”

Hastily you recounted the night’s events, sparing no details as you did so. Launching first into how Joseph and Caesar told you about The Pillar Men, the Stone Masks, and the Red Stone of Aja, then Dio’s history with the Joestars, right down to how Caesar seemed to know that there was more to your relationship with Dio than simply work, you led into the way Dio had drawn the information from you at the end of the night, abruptly switching from charming to a threat in the blink of an eye. Remaining absolutely still as he listened, the sole contribution he had made to the conversation being that he knew about the Stone Masks, his mouth slowly fell open and he grew paler as you went on.

“You’re telling me,” Diego said, growing deathly quiet. “That an already nearly indestructible vampire is now in possession of the knowledge that the very thing that had helped him transcend humanity in the first place can help him become something completely untouchable and able to walk in sunlight. And he got that knowledge from you, the woman he has been shamelessly trying to seduce for months? And now Stand users are showing up en masse to his house, and Dio’s all but ignoring you? And not once did you consider that those things may all be correlated to each other? That’s what you’re telling me, right?”

It clicked, and your eyes went wide.

“You bloody idiot,” Diego speared a chunk of pancakes onto his fork. “He was using you the whole time. You played right into his hands.”

As logical as Diego’s approach was, you could not get the look of pure hate in his eyes out of your mind nor the set of his jaw when he had breathed in the alcohol and cologne still clinging to your skin.

“There’s one more thing,” you quieted in turn, dread seeping through you as a different comprehension set in. “He could smell Gyro’s cologne on me in the shower.”

Diego dropped his fork, the cheap metal clanging against the table catching the attention of several patrons nearby.

“What?” 

“I said it was from Joseph giving me too many bear hugs at the party and he believed me, but—”

“—No he didn’t,” Diego cut you off immediately with a snort, his expression grave. “No one with half a brain cell would believe that. He knows.”

The world seemed to sweep itself out from under your feet and you felt like shrinking into the booth, eager to disappear into the dimension filled with stale gum, lost keys, and forgotten knickknacks that existed in the crack of the seat. None of this felt real anymore. It was all too harrowing, too violent and incoherent to be real; this was a nightmare, this had to be a nightmare, any minute now you would wake from a coma and find yourself working at the same old bar in the same old studio apartment and you would never know names like Dio Brando, Gyro Zeppeli, and Jonathan Joestar.

Diego took out his phone, and your pulse raced in your veins.

“Who are you calling?”

“The Joestars,” Diego hissed, his voice strained with panic. “Are you stupid or do you just not get it? If he knows, then that means any day now he’s going to ask me if I know, and we both know he’s somehow a living lie detector. If he knows I know, I’m dead, and I don’t care about your bloody love life enough to die for it. My life is at stake, I’m calling the Joestars. Now.”

Then he brought out his phone and held it to his ear, waiting in tense silence until he snapped to attention at the sound of a familiar voice.

“Oi, Johnny. Are you in Danville or are you still here? You are? Good. We need to talk to you. Meet us at the—what’s this place called again and where is it?”

“Norms,” you answered, subdued. “In Encino.”

“Norms in Encino. As quick as you can.”

Diego paused to listen, scowling at the conversation. “I don’t care if it’s far, you sodding wanker, get here. This isn’t a social call, this is serious. It’s about Dio.”

Another pause, Diego nodding silently. “Good. Bring Gyro and the geriatrics. As you Americans say, shit is about to hit the fan.”

He hung up, a dire look in his eye, and set his phone on the table. After, he flagged down the server and let her know you would be staying a while to wait for some friends, the pitch of his voice and the poshness of his accent shifting into something scarily like Dio when he wanted to charm his way into something as he smiled up at her. She in turn nodded with a thin smile that did not reach her eyes, a routine from your old life that you knew well and recognized the meaning behind instantly: I don’t care, do what you’ve got to do, I just want to go home.

When she had left, Diego fell into taciturn silence, tapping his fingers on the Formica and looking to the door every three minutes, nervously squirming in his seat.

Bringing out your phone, you sent a message to Gyro.

We need to talk.

The read receipt flashed on, the icon signaling he was typing appearing and disappearing at random, before you had gotten a reply.

So I’ve heard. We’re already on our way.

No, you typed, like. Me and you. Alone.

Again, the ellipses flashed and vanished sporadically, before Gyro had seemingly given up entirely. Then, you had sent another.

It’s about New Year’s.

Gyro’s response was instant, one that was indecipherable in tone and had sent a pang of guilt through your gut.

Ah. Then I would say we do, don’t we, bambina?

Just over forty minutes later, the figures of a slender man in a hat pushing a wheelchair followed by two very tall, very buff men squeezed their way through the glass doors, their faces a quartet of confusion, and you pointed to them from the booth. Breathing a sigh of relief, Diego turned and waved them over, and Joseph and Caesar began to make their way to the table almost instantly. Gyro lingered by the host stand for a moment for a moment, crouching to whisper something in Johnny’s ear; Johnny looked to Gyro, then you, his face stoic. You gave a halfhearted wave, one Gyro returned equally halfheartedly, Johnny leaning back to whisper something to Gyro and ignoring you entirely.

There was not enough room to accommodate everyone—Joseph and Caesar alone were big enough to take up most of the booth without you and Diego already sitting there—and by the time the six of you had moved to a bigger table, they had gotten their drink orders, and everyone had settled in, Diego’s nervousness had reached its zenith. 

“So,” he spoke in a voice that was far too bright and affable, a drawn out exhale leaving him as he splayed his hands against the table. “Dio is plotting something. Stand users are showing up to the mansion in packs like wolves, and—” he gave you a pointed look before addressing the table. “—We think more may be coming.”

Joseph spoke first, eyebrows raised. “Do you know the names of any of these Stand users?”

“Vanilla Ice,” you interjected, and Gyro and Johnny snickered at the name. “Mariah. Midler. There’s a priest, Pucci. Hol Horse. And some old lady named Enyaba that owns an occult bookstore.”

“Enya Geil,” Joseph and Caesar said in unison, sharing a knowing look. You locked eyes with Diego, a mutual sense of foreboding going unspoken between you.

“We know who she is,” Caesar said quietly. “But not the others. She deals in black market occult artifacts, the Speedwagon Foundation has been keeping an eye on her for some time now.”

Your heart sank, and Diego’s mouth dropped open.

So Diego’s right. He’s looking for the Red Stone of Aja.

“Him knowing Enya Geil isn’t great,” Joseph added. “But I’m sure that’s not the only reason you brought us here, is it?” 

“Well,” Diego trailed off, stealing a French fry off your long forgotten plate and dipping it into the container of ranch before popping it into his mouth. “Bloody hell, that is good—The Red Stone thing. He knows about it.”

Joseph cursed loudly, earning a disapproving glare from a nearby table with small children, and he offered them an awkward apology before looking over to Caesar. His counterpart was far more calm, running a hand through his greying blonde hair, watching Joseph carefully as he spoke.

“Enya Geil has been looking into the Stone Masks, too. I’m sure they’re all gone by now, but on the off chance they aren’t, this is bad, Joseph.”

“The Stone’s been lost for ninety years,” Joseph looked at Caesar, resolute. “We need to find it before he does. I’ll call the Speedwagon Foundation after this, have them start looking. Can’t be hard to search around a volcano, right?”

Then Joseph’s stare met yours, a question lurking in them.

“I wanted to ask you on New Year’s, but there wasn’t time. Do you know anything about Dio’s Stand?”

“No,” you admitted. “But I was there when he got it.”

At that, all eyes at the table fell on you, Diego falling into obvious shock. 

“You what?” Diego was incredulous, dropping the second fry he had tried to take from your plate. “How?”

“He asked me to stab him with this arrow in his room, and I did. It was right around the time I started working for him. That’s how he got his Stand.”

“Shit,” Joseph breathed, and Johnny and Gyro gave each other a weighted look that seemed to carry in it a silent agreement you could not understand. “He has a Stand Arrow?”

“I guess,” you answered in a meek voice, not at all understanding what that was. “It was gold and had like, a beetle or something on it. Is that a Stand Arrow?”

Caesar let out a whispered string of furious Italian, the soliloquy earning a wide-eyed look of appreciative surprise from Gyro. 

“Polnareff mentioned those, remember, Joseph? That’s a Requiem Arrow.”

“Oh no,” Joseph groaned, slapping a gloved hand to his face. “This is really, really bad.”

Even they’re scared. Guess shit really is about to hit the fan.

“The World,” Diego said carefully, picking back up the fry and dipping it in more ranch. “That’s his Stand. I don’t know what it does. He said a fortune teller named it.”

“That would be Enya,” Caesar nodded. “Which means she most likely sold him the Stand Arrow. She may have more.”

“He brought me here first,” Diego added. “Offered me wealth and power, said he’d get me into government if I helped him. He might be promising everyone else that too. Which brings me to why I even called you all here.”

Diego leaned forward, his eyes on Joseph and Caesar. “I quite like living, and I have no intentions of stopping, but I’m sticking my neck out here. Dio finds out I did any of this, I’m dead. Dio finds out she did any of this, she’s dead. And if he finds out we’re onto him, we’re all dead. I don’t care how or what you do to make sure that doesn’t happen, but I want your guarantee that we won’t get murdered by that tosser.”

“We can do that,” Joseph agreed. “But we may need your help with something.”

Caesar went quiet, watching you with an inscrutable expression.

“We might need your help to kill Dio. Truce or not, that’s the only way we’re going to be able to stop him.”

The idea itself floored you, bringing a wave of conflicting emotions to the back of your throat; it felt like you were about to vomit. Some part of you had, however unconsciously, hoped for a bloodless resolution to whatever madness was on the horizon, one that left Dio relatively powerless yet still breathing. Another part of you felt overwhelming guilt, an emotion you had become disturbingly accustomed to since October—it was your fault that Dio knew about the Red Stone of Aja, your fault Dio had a Stand, your fault that everyone was gathered at a wobbly Formica table in a lackluster diner in Encino, your fault that Diego had uprooted his entire life and now feared for it, your fault that this entire time Gyro had been staring at you in silence, a hard look in his eyes that made you feel sick—its weight a relentless barrage against your conscience. 

But what had taken you aback, filling you with surprise and bewilderment, was that there was some small part of you that was worried for Dio, of all people. There was a small, but genuine, part of you that did not want him to die. 

Diego, it seemed, did not share the sentiment.

“Deal,” his response was immediate, an emphatic nod accompanying it. “I want his money when we do.”

“You are his descendant,” Johnny said coolly; it was the first time he had spoken since their arrival. “That’s kind of how it works, lizard brain.”

“Oh, sod off,” Diego spat with little vitriol, flinging a fry at him. 

“And you, signorina?” Caesar’s voice was gentle, a kindness that did not quite reach his eyes lilting within it. “We never did hear back about you starting Hamon training.”

“Nonno,” Gyro finally spoke up, and you tensed at his voice. 

Don’t bring it up don’t bring it up don’t bring it up—

“With everything they’ve just told us, I think she’s probably had her hands full and hasn’t had the time.” He smiled then, the grill on his teeth curiously missing and revealing a row of perfectly straight, bright teeth. There was a double meaning to his input, one that clearly said he had meant it not only for blowing off training but for blowing him off too. “Right, bambina?”

Oh thank God.

“Yeah,” you agreed, nodding. “I meant to get back to you, it’s just been a lot.”

Though you had said it to Caesar, part of you had meant it for Gyro as well; from the way his gaze had softened, he knew it. Caesar looked pensive, his eyes fixed on you.

“That’s fair,” he said after a moment. “I can imagine it’s been hectic. But it does not quite answer my question. If it came down to it and you had to kill Dio, would you?”

A knot formed in the pit of your stomach, and you met Caesar’s gaze head on.

“Yeah,” you answered, sounding more sure than you felt. “I would.”

“Why don’t we start training next week,” Joseph chimed in, unusually serious. “We just settled in to the new house. Diego, you can come too.”

“Not bloody likely,” Diego answered. “If we’re stabbing Dio in the back, we need to play it as safe as possible. He didn’t send me off to learn Hamon. If I start going, he’ll catch on.”

“He has a point, Dad,” said Johnny. “Plus, he’d probably be bad at it. I don’t think cold blooded reptiles can learn Hamon.”

“Hang on—wait, do you know?” Diego frowned, then looked over at you. “Did you tell him?”

“No,” you answered honestly, and Gyro smirked.

“But she did tell me,” he added. “And I told Johnny. Find any good pebbles in those fries you’ve been stealing, Diego?”

“You know what?” Diego gave you a bloodthirsty glare, pointing a finger at you. “Don’t worry about Dio, because I’m going to fucking kill you.”

Johnny smiled, vindictive and sarcastic. “How? Are you gonna barf up a rock? I saw a lizard do that on the farm once, can you do it on command?” 

Joseph and Caesar settled into bewilderment and Gyro, Johnny and Diego began lightheartedly bickering while you sank lower in your seat.

“I have no idea,” Joseph said slowly, leaning toward Caesar. “What’s happening right now.”

That had sent Gyro and Johnny into an uproar, and Diego’s face contorted into a dark scowl.

“I hate all of you,” he muttered, and Gyro and Johnny laughed harder.

After that, the mood shifted. Levity settled over the table like a blanket being draped over your shoulders, the darker aspects of your impromptu meeting tucked off to the side. Everyone, save for you, Diego and Gyro, ordered food; Diego polished off the rest of your fries, his own breakfast plate long since devoured, and blushed so deeply when the server had asked how he had managed to tuck away that much food that it had sent Gyro and Johnny into another roaring fit of laughter at the sight (“Got a crush, lizard boy?” Johnny had taunted, effortlessly swatting back the fry Diego had chucked at his head with noticeable venom). Half indulging in the conversation that had blossomed around you, Gyro’s eyes continued to wander over to you, gauging your silence with a more discerning eye than you would have initially given him credit for.

When it had came time to leave and the six of you had begun filing out of the door and into the parking lot, Gyro hung back, waiting for you as Joseph pushed Johnny to the car, Caesar at his side. 

“D’you know what,” Diego said slowly, stopping in his tracks. Jerking his thumb back toward the door, he cocked his head in the same direction. “I think I forgot something inside. Wait for me, will you?”

He gave you no time to reply, darting back inside and leaving you alone.

Is he—is he giving us time to talk? That’s…unusually nice of him.

Then you saw him through the window, talking to the pink haired server and scratching at the back of his head, and you understood. Gyro followed your gaze, mildly impressed once his landed on Diego.

“Good for him. Maybe he’ll be more likable after getting laid. Speaking of,” he turned to you, giving you a long look. “You said we need to talk. I’ll walk you to your car.”

Falling into step beside you as you made your way to the end of the parking lot, he was in good humor, a playful smile resting on his lips. “And here I was thinking you ghosted me.”

“I kind of did, actually,” you admitted, giving him an embarrassed shrug. “But it was for your safety.”

“Really? How so?”

“Well,” you took a deep breath, intentionally slowing down to draw out the walk. “I may have downplayed how complicated my job is.”

“You mean how complicated it is between you and Dio? I already knew.”

There was no accusatory inflection to his voice, no judgement nor offense; it was a quiet acknowledgement, one that made you do a double take, blinking at Gyro in stunned silence. Stopping in front of you, he brought his finger to your neck and gently tapped on the side, the pads of his finger running over the raised flesh of the scars Dio had left the night you had met. 

“They feed from their fingers,” his voice was as gentle as his touch, and he shrugged. “Not by a bite to the neck. And you also were able to talk him out of killing us twice, so I had a feeling, but when you told me everything on New Year’s there were things that either didn’t add up or didn’t make sense. Then you ghosted me—” he smirked at that, slightly shaking his head. “—For my safety. It wasn’t hard to put it together after that, bambina.”

Then he shifted into something that was remarkably clinical, tilting your head to the side for a better look and leaning close, inspecting the scars.

“They’re about three months old or so, aren’t they? I’m guessing he did this on Halloween?”

“Yeah,” you admitted, your face growing hot. “That’s kind of how I found out he was a vampire in the first place.”

“Can’t imagine that was fun. This is the only mark, though. I would know,” Gyro gave you a lewd wink, breaking away from his examination for just a moment. “Does that mean it happened only once?”

Looking away out of embarrassment, you answered him in a subdued manner. “It was twice. But,” you added, “the second time was before me and you.”

“Well,” Gyro went back to your side and continued walking. “I guess I see the whole picture now. I’m touched that you were worried for my safety, though, that’s cute.”

Grinning, he looked at you from the corner of his eye. “Anyway. Now that we’ve cleared all this up, are you free at all next week?”

“For Hamon training or whatever? Yeah, I only work nights and I have weekends off.”

“I see.” He appeared thoughtful, the expression a shaky ruse to detract from the mischief in his eyes. “And if, say, I was to tell you to come by on days you aren’t training, would you risk it?”

“That depends, do you have a death wish or were you just not paying attention?”

“Maybe both,” he said with a wink. “Maybe I might want to get to know you either way. Maybe I might like you a little from what I already know.”

Raising an eyebrow, you entertained the hypothetical scenario. “Let’s say I did risk it. What did you have in mind?”

“A date,” replied Gyro in a smooth voice. “I know you said to skip it altogether, but I did like finding out where it would’ve ended up going.”

“So that’s the real reason,” you said dryly.

He had the decency to look offended at the accusation. “No, bambina, not at all.”

Then he grinned, decency out the window. “Remember how you said I speak in Italian all the time? Want to learn some right now?”

Wary, you watched him from the corner of your eye. “Sure?”

“All right.” Seamlessly adopting a scholarly air, he held a finger up. “Lesson one: ero gentile prima. La prossima volta che ci vediamo, ti fotto così forte che non puoi camminare.”

“How is that lesson one? That’s like a whole sentence! Wouldn’t lesson one be like, I dunno, buongiorno or something? What does that even mean?”

“Don’t worry, bambina. You’ll figure it out.”

With a smirk, he left you, catching up to Joseph and Caesar by the car. Once he had, you could hear Diego’s hurried footsteps growing closer against the pavement; out of breath, his face looked flushed, a wide smile plastered across it as he stumbled from a sprint to a walk. An unflappable look of arrogance and accomplishment burned bright in his eyes and he cast one more look toward the doors before facing you.

“Right then,” he said briskly as he collected himself, wiping the kinks out of his sweater and straightening up, still grinning. “Shall we go back to hell?”

Chapter Text

“All right,” Joseph’s voice dominated the roar of the waves breaking just beyond the pebble-strewn shore, the sun glittering like diamonds over the Pacific. He looked almost silly, dressed in a pink and white striped shirt that fit so snugly it appeared to be fighting to stay on his torso with the sleeves rolled into some facsimile of a tank top and shorts despite it being the middle of February; he appeared focused, stroking his beard as he talked, sizing you up in a way that clearly conveyed he was gauging your potential. You met him head-on, ready.

“Hamon is all about breathing. The first thing we’re going to go over is the basic technique. I’m not great with words, so I’ll let Caesar explain.”

Caesar stood beside him, dressed far more reasonably for the weather in jeans and a jacket, and for the first time you took a closer look. Though touched by age, he looked quite similar to Gyro; it was easy to see in the slope of his jaw and the shape of his clear blue eyes that they were related. He leaned more into the territory of classically handsome than beautiful, clean shaven and with short, shaggy grey-blonde hair, and briefly you found yourself wondering if Caesar served as the precursor to what Gyro would look like when he got older.

He smiled, far more warmly than he had ever smiled at you before, the movement a wordless acknowledgment that he no longer held you in suspicion.

“The trick is,” he began, splaying a hand over his chest. “Taking in the deepest breath you can manage, then cycling only a shallow amount in and out of your lungs. You want to keep them as full as possible while still breathing. This will accelerate your red blood cell production and amplify the oxidation process, allowing for an increased healing rate and enhanced endurance. Hamon, as I’m sure Joseph told you, is the manifestation of life itself, identical in nature to sunlight. By encouraging the very thing that keeps you alive into overdrive, you can begin to understand how to harness Hamon.”

He took his hand off his chest and nodded. “Concentrate, take a slow, deep breath through your nose, bring in as much air as you can before it starts to hurt, and hold your breath.”

You complied, bringing in air to the point of burning, and Caesar tutted under his breath.

“Too much, signorina. You’re struggling. A little less.”

Exhaling until the air left you and you felt dizzy, you tried again, stopping right before the point where your lungs began to burn. With an approving nod, Caesar tapped his nose. 

“Now breathe exactly as I told you to, through here.”

Cycling short breaths in and out of your nose, a faint tingling feeling starkly dissimilar to the burning in your lungs began welling in your core, spreading out to your fingertips and the soles of your feet. It felt warm, like the sun at your back on the beach in June, like summer afternoons at the Santa Monica Pier. Distantly you could hear a chime, its source unknown, the sound of it distracting you and breaking the tingling feeling that had begun tugging at your body as you exhaled.

Caesar applauded slowly, and beside him Joseph beamed.

“There ya go!” Joseph cheered, giving you a thumbs up. 

“Magnifico, signorina,” chimed in Caesar.

Bewildered, you looked between the two, swallowing air into your lungs.

“I didn’t even do anything, though.”

“You did,” Caesar countered. “For a very brief moment, you channeled Hamon.”

“That was the chime,” Joseph added. “But you gotta concentrate, or else you’ll disrupt the flow.”

“She also needs to expand her lung capacity.”

“You think so?” Frowning, Joseph looked toward the sea. “But it’s cold.”

“We have a doctor on hand,” Caesar said lightly, his eyes following Joseph’s. “She’ll be all right.”

You glanced at the shore, a sense of foreboding overcoming you.

“Wait—no, you’re not saying I need to go in the water, are you?”

“It is the best way to see how long you can hold your breath,” Joseph mused, doubt clear on his face. “Can you swim?”

“I mean, yeah, but I don’t want to go in the water! It’s fifty degrees out here!”

“You won’t get hypothermia,” Caesar reassured you. “Like I said, we have a doctor on hand.”

You looked around, seeing no one, frowning at the two when you had returned your gaze to them. “One of you?”

“No,” Joseph shook his head. “I do real estate and Caesar’s a yoga instructor.”

From behind you, the sound of footsteps crunching through rocky foliage snapped you to attention and you turned around, a taupe wide-brimmed hat peeking from the side of the base of a nearby cliff. Not a moment later, Gyro rounded the corner with two large, fluffy towels in hand, artfully dodging a tide pool as he made his way over.

“Ciao, bambina,” he grinned, keeping a reserved distance. “Ready for me to get you wet?”

Oh my God, I hate you right now.

Biting back an insult, you instead surrendered to confusion. 

“You’re a doctor?”

“I am,” he answered with a nod. “Well, I was back in Napoli. I got my medical degree in 2016. I started racing three years ago.”

“But you’re young.”

“I’m seventy-two years old, bambina. Hamon, remember? Slows the aging process.”

Caesar and Joseph exchanged a long look; Caesar appeared annoyed, and Joseph was on the verge of laughter.

“What?”

Gyro laughed as he put the towels down on a nearby rock, taking off his hat and setting it delicately next to them.

“I’m kidding, I’m twenty-eight. Take off your shoes, we’re going in the water.”

He took off his shirt, folding it and placing it next to his hat before unbuckling his belt, meeting Caesar’s raised eyebrow with an even expression.

“I’m not going into that water in my clothes, I’ll freeze to death when I get out. I take it you told her to bring a swimsuit?”

“Well,” Joseph looked embarrassed, and Caesar scowled at him. “I might have not thought we would’ve gotten past the point of her trying to learn the technique today.”

“You’re kidding me,” Gyro deadpanned, all levity gone from his face as his hands froze over the fly of his pants. “What were you going to do now then, just let her go in while fully clothed?”

He did not give them time to answer, giving an exasperated sigh. “You know what? You two, keep your backs turned. Give the lady some privacy. Bambina, strip unless you want to walk around freezing in wet clothes.”

“Maybe we can just, I dunno, not do this today?”

“Just go with it,” Gyro cautioned. “It’s better than the breathing mask at Air Supplena.”

“He’s not wrong,” Joseph called over his shoulder as he and Caesar turned their backs. “I still have nightmares about that damn thing.”

You looked to Gyro, who was now halfway through peeling off his jeans. 

“I’m not getting out of this, am I?”

“Not today, at least.” He looked equally displeased, glaring toward the shore. “Let’s get this over with. Hurry up.”

“Okay, okay,” you grumbled, undressing down to your bra and underwear. “It’s basically like wearing a swimsuit anyway.”

You set down your clothes next to Gyro’s, acutely aware of his stare lingering over you. With a disgruntled sigh, he locked his arm around yours and began leading you toward the shore.

“Let’s go,” he muttered. “Stay facing that way,” he added to Caesar and Joseph, hurling the command over his shoulder like a rock.

When the two of you were out of earshot, Gyro dropped his voice low.

“This is not how I pictured having you strip down for me going at all.”

“Who says I was going to strip down for you?”

“You weren’t?” He pretended to look wounded, pouting at you and batting his long lashes. “Amore, you devastate me.”

The tide rushed to your ankles and you jumped back, causing Gyro to nearly fall over before yanking you back to him and anchoring himself in the sand. 

“It’s fucking freezing,” he muttered. “I’m gonna kill them. But, there’s only one real way to get over that.”

He turned to you, a devious glint showing bright in his eyes, and a sinking feeling dropped to the soles of your feet.

Fuck, he’s going to dunk me in.

“Sorry,” he said with a wide grin that told you he was not even remotely sorry. Lifting you into his arms, he charged waist-deep into the water while you smacked at his shoulders and struggled in his grip, tossing you upward and outward into the sea.

“Gyro, you son of—”

Ice cold water swallowed you whole, churning and rushing at your ears in a dull roar. A muted crash broke the surface beside you and a slender arm snaked its way around your waist, pulling you sharply upward. Dry from the waist up, Gyro laughed and held you as you tried to steady yourself, the sea floor just inches from your feet. You were far enough out to where the calm tide would not break over you but close enough to where Joseph and Caesar were still clearly visible, and Gyro called out to them over the water.

“All right,” he yelled. “We’re in. You can turn around now.”

They did, and Joseph shouted back to you. 

“Gyro, time her when she’s under.”

Motioning to the water, Gyro smiled.

“If you drown, I know CPR.”

“I’m not going to drown,” you muttered, drawing in a deep breath and submerging yourself in the cold depths with your eyes closed. Counting slowly in your head, you listened to the water stilling itself around you, its rocking pulse at your back almost calming.

…nine Mississippi, ten Mississippi, eleven Mississippi, twel—

A sharp pinch at your backside startled you into opening your eyes and you opened your mouth to cry out, drawing in a mouthful of saltwater. Breaking the surface, you came up coughing and spluttering, Gyro’s frame shaking silently beside you.

“Twelve seconds,” he yelled to Caesar and Joseph. “Needs work.”

“Only twelve?” Joseph roared back. “Really? That’s it?”

“I guess?” He lowered his voice, smirking. “What happened, bambina, something bite you in the ass?”

“I’m going to fucking murder you,” you spat, brushing your hair from your eyes and splashing Gyro with as much water as you could push his way. Halfheartedly dodging it, he laughed, splashing you back.

“Oh, you are? I can give you a couple pointers on suffocation. You can shove my face between your thighs, for starters, though I might drown in you first. I almost did last time, so I know it’ll be a good way to die.”

“Gyro,” Caesar called from the shore. “Stop splashing her and focus.”

“Aw, let them have a little fun, Caesar! You always were too much of a stickler about training.”

“Joseph, you had thirty days to live and were too busy trying to seduce your own—”

“—Ahhh, we don’t need to get into that, Ceasarino!”

In the water, you and Gyro watched the two in bewilderment, Joseph’s red face visible all the way from where you stood. Under cover of the distraction, Gyro slipped a hand past your underwear and squeezed your bottom, eliciting a yelp from you while you swatted at him.

“What?” He asked, feigning innocence. “You have a nice ass.”

”You’re incorrigible,” you groaned.

“Only around you. Get back under, we should actually start gauging how long you can hold your breath.”

“Don’t grab my ass again.”

“I won’t,” he swore, clearly lying through his chattering teeth.

By the time Gyro had deemed it no longer viable for either of you to be in the water, you had managed to stretch how long you could hold your breath to forty-five seconds. With nearly every dive, Gyro had taken the opportunity to try and break your concentration—his hands roamed over your body, himself angled to where Joseph and Caesar could not catch him, he massaged and squeezed at you and almost every time, you came up gasping for air. There were more than one instances where he was groping your breasts or brushing his fingers just for a moment over your clit, goaded on by the fact that while you would come up for air and to retaliate, you never told him to stop. By the time you were trudging against the tide toward Joseph and Caesar’s turned backs, you were soaked to the bone with ice-cold water and more than a little aroused, and overall wishing for the day to be over.

When you had reached your clothes, Gyro handed you a towel and began drying himself off. In silence you stood close to each other, sneaking glances at the other, before he abruptly motioned for you to turn away.

“I’m going to take these off,” he said quietly, pointing to his boxer briefs. “Turn around.”

Lowering your voice to where Joseph and Caesar could not hear you, you let your gaze fall to his hips.

“What? I’ve seen it before.”

“It’s cold,” Gyro hissed. “And I just got out of that fucking cold ass water. I don’t want you seeing me like that. Plus, I don’t want them thinking I’ve done anything with you yet.”

Not bothering to ponder on why that stung, you drew the towel tight around your body and turned. “Embarrassed?”

“What?” Gyro sounded genuinely offended. “No, it’s not that. Caesar will kill me. He’s just starting to be okay with the fact that you’re even here.”

“He doesn’t like me, does he?”

“It’s not that, bambina.” He sighed, cursing under his breath while the sound of pebbles sliding against each other shot through his breath. Sneaking a glimpse, you saw him with one hand steadying himself on the rock and the towel wrapped around his waist, one leg through his pants and the other pulled up to his shin. He had lost his footing, just for a moment, putting on his jeans.

When he regained his composure, he spoke so quietly that you had to strain to hear him. “He thought Dio sent you here to spy on us. He saw the scars in the cabin, he thought you were his girlfriend.”

It had made sense, but it still left you taken aback.

“Really?”

“Johnny and I spent days convincing him you weren’t. Springing us from the basement helped.”

He put a hand on your shoulder and turned you toward him, sneaking a peek at Joseph and Caesar to make sure they were still facing the other way, and planted a quick kiss on your cheek.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since I got here,” he whispered in your ear. “You looked pretty today.”

Then he handed you your clothes and turned his back. “You’re gonna want to get out of your underwear. It’ll suck to put your clothes on if you’re wearing them.”

Blushing, you used the cover of the towel to slide off your bra and underwear and get dressed, and when you finished Gyro draped his jacket over your shoulders.

“All right,” he said to Caesar and Joseph. “She’s dressed, you can turn around now.”

Training lasted for another hour after that, Joseph and Caesar feeling particularly confident at your potential. The four of you hiked back up the sand-covered stairs leading to the parking lot, Gyro’s Ford Bronco parked next to your car. He gave you a long look while throwing the towel and his boxer briefs in the trunk, then turned to Caesar. 

“Nonno, she should come over and shower. Driving in traffic for an hour wet and covered in sand sucks, having her do that feels mean.”

Joseph, to your surprise, backed him up.

“He’s got a point, plus she should warm up.”

“Only,” Caesar said lightly, giving you a careful look. “If it’s safe for her. I don’t want her going home and Dio getting the wrong idea.”

The shower with Dio popped back into your mind and you shuddered, something the three of them interpreted as you being cold. Showering would be smart for several reasons. Gyro’s jacket smelled faintly like his cologne, it stood to reason that Dio would smell it on you too. You were also, actually, cold, and Gyro was right—driving home would be hell. And a hot shower did sound enticing after being dunked into the ocean for what felt like an eternity.

“It should be fine,” you said, tucking the towel next to the one Gyro had set down. “He’d probably be more confused if I showed up smelling like the ocean.”

“Then, all right.” Caesar got into his car, Joseph taking the passenger’s seat, and Gyro closed the trunk of the Bronco.

“Leave the door unlocked when you do,” he whispered in your ear. “I’m going to bring you some clothes to change into for a while, you should wash those before you leave.”

“Is that all?”

“Today? Yes.”

He unlocked his car, staring at you in a way that made your face grow hot. “Can’t promise it won’t be next time, though.”

The beach was only twenty minutes from Caesar’s house, but the drive felt like an eternity. Your anxiety palpable, you did your best to drown it out with the radio, taking deep breaths and reassuring yourself that nothing bad was going to happen. Gyro himself had assured you nothing would; there was no reason to worry about Dio potentially flying off the handles and murdering you over a shower.

The tiny pulse thudding between your legs added in to the cacophony, putting forward far more insidious and tempting thoughts. Even if it did happen, what would it matter? Dio was only using you anyway. It was not as if you were in a relationship and sleeping with Gyro was an act of adultery, was it? It was just sex, and it had only happened twice before he dropped you completely. You had never meant anything to him; and Gyro, he seemed to actually kind of like you. And this was all without going into the fact that Dio was apparently an evil megalomaniac with a stolen body.

Yet the fear persisted, and when you found yourself pulling up the circular driveway of Caesar’s house, you were half ready to pull back out and drive away.

Gyro waited for you next to the Bronco, towels in hand, Caesar’s car nowhere to be found.

“I’ll show you where the shower is,” he said lightly, walking with you to the front door.

“Where are Caesar and Joseph?”

“They figured you might be hungry, so they’re going to go pick up some food. They should be back in half an hour or so.”

You knew the proper response was to say something along the lines of “that’s nice of them,” or some other sentiment conveying your appreciation. And it would not have been wrong. It was genuinely kind of them to think of you, and you were grateful.

But you did not feel hungry. The knot in your stomach saw to that.

Gyro seemed to have taken the look on your face as exhaustion and and gave you a small smile, leading you down the hall to a door near his bedroom.

“I know it was a lot today, but you did good. Seriously. Nice job.”

“Thanks,” you smiled back at him and he turned on the light, illuminating a somewhat large but homey bathroom. Turning on the shower for you, Gyro disappeared and you quickly undressed, bolting into the shower before he got back. You could see him through the foggy shower door, setting down a fresh towel and a pair of sweatpants and a sweater, pausing when he saw you through the glass.

“I said nothing was going to happen,” he reiterated, tugging his shirt over his head. “And I meant that. But you look beat, so I’m coming in. I don’t want to have to clean your blood off the tile because you fell and hit your head.”

“Is that a good idea?”

“Do you take half hour long showers?”

“I mean, sometimes?”

“Make this one quick then, if you’re cold I’ll light the fireplace.”

He paused, doubling back out of the bathroom and returning with another towel and change of clothes. Stripping down quickly, he stepped into the shower, itself spacious enough to fit the both of you comfortably.

“Here,” he said quietly, gently pushing you into the water. Grabbing a body soap from the ledge near the window, he lathered it up in his hands and began washing you off, pausing just a little too long once his hands moved past your shoulders. 

“Nothing’s going to happen,” he repeated, more so to himself as he palmed at your breasts, perilously close to you in the spacious shower.

“But you want it to,” you teased, the faint pulse from the beach rising steadily to a crescendo and drowning out your better judgment. 

“God, I do,” he groaned, hanging his head in defeat. “Why do you have to be so goddamn beautiful, amore? I can’t even keep my hands off you if I tried.”

Cracking a wry smile, you leaned into his touch. “Did you ever actually try?”

“No, not even a little,” he admitted, laughing and moving his hands to your waist. “But I’m trying to be a gentleman right now, and I am actually worried about you.”

That took you by surprise. “Wait, why?”

“Well,” he looked off to the side, feigning deep thought. “You just had a very long day being dunked in the ocean—by a dashing Italian man that happens to be a former doctor—to train how long you can hold your breath because his one-hundred-and-four-year-old great-great-grandfather and his equally ancient best friend think teaching you how to fight by breathing in sunlight is a good idea. Physical exertion aside, that’s also disorienting and not exactly ideal for brain health. You’re not in the best condition for me to do everything I want to do to you right now. It’s too much strenuous activity for one day.”

“Brilliant examination, Doctor Zeppeli,” you muttered, the throb between your legs rioting at the quiet refusal lurking in his words. Deep down, you knew he was right, and the fears you had in the car ricocheted through the haze that his proximity kept you under.

“But trust me,” he tilted your face up to his and grinned, green eyes shining like gemstones. “If you actually want to do this, we will. Another day. I still need to teach you the meaning of what I said in that parking lot last week.”

“Ah, right.” You stepped back under the water, rinsing off the soap. “Ero gentile something something something.”

“That,” Gyro agreed with a laugh as he began cleaning himself off. “But I can tell you the first part.”

You reached for some shampoo and began washing your hair. “What was it?”

“Ero gentile prima: I was gentle last time.”

The smile he gave you sent all rational thought right back out the window, and in that moment you desired nothing more than to strangle him for being a gentleman.

The two of you showered quickly, something that had felt surprisingly normal despite your mounting confusion. Unsure if it was because you had already been naked in front of him or because you were becoming frighteningly accustomed to men barging into the shower with you, you opted not to question it, Gyro carefully making sure you were steady on your feet until you had both showered, dried off and gotten dressed. The fussing, in truth, baffled you—you were not tired, nor did you feel exhausted or winded. When you were done Gyro had led you into the living room and lit the fireplace, the house still empty when you had curled up on the couch with a blanket Gyro had handed you before turning on the television.

Then you had blinked, and Gyro was gently shaking your shoulder.

“Hey,” he whispered, rousing you into consciousness. “You fell asleep.”

Guess I was tired after all.

The best reply you could come up with was something close to “mmn?” and you opened one eye, yawning. Your head was in Gyro’s lap, Joseph and Caesar chattering away in the kitchen.

“How long?” Your voice was thick with sleep.

“Only an hour,” Gyro answered. “Told you, you did a lot today. That takes a toll.”

“Time is it?”

“Just past one. You still have plenty of time before you need to head home, bambina.”

“She’s awake?” Joseph sounded excited, the sound of a chair scraping against wood punctuating his question.

“Mind the floors,” Caesar chided.

“She’s conscious,” Gyro joked. “We’re not quite at awake yet.”

Joseph bounded over anyway, sitting across from you both and bombarding you with questions—“how do you feel?” “Did you have a good first day?” “Are you hungry? We didn’t know what you liked so we got Italian, is that okay?” “Are you tired?” “Are you going to be okay to drive home?”—it reminded you of a grandfather eagerly interrogating their grandkids after their first day of school, and you gave him a sleepy smile while answering his questions, sitting up to eat the bowl of pasta Joseph had shoved in your direction despite numerous protests from both you and Caesar. 

“You need the protein,” Joseph had insisted.

Gyro had added his two cents next. “I eat on the couch when you’re not home all the time, Nonno, if there’s any stains—don’t yell at me, I know you do it too! Let the poor girl eat.”

Then, under his breath, so softly only you had heard it, he had whispered: “I could’ve given you some protein earlier, it would’ve slid right down your throat.”

When you had blushed, Gyro laughed, and vague understanding dawned bright in Joseph’s eyes.

After the endless barrage of questions, Gyro handed you back your clothes, all of them freshly laundered, and you went to change in the bathroom. From the kitchen, you heard Caesar say something about needing to check the propane on the grill for dinner and the sound of French doors opening and closing. Not a moment had passed after they had shut before the hushed whispers of Joseph and Gyro snaked their way down the hallway, catching your attention while you were putting on your bra and heard Joseph mention your name. Slipping the straps over your shoulders as quietly as possible, you paused, pressing one ear to the door to listen.

“…You can tell me. Do you like her?”

“I don’t dislike her,” Gyro deflected in an airy tone. “She did kind of save my life.”

“But do you like her? I‘ve been watching you all day, you looked like you were head over heels in lo—”

“—I barely know her, it’s not like that.”

Joseph’s loud guffaw broke through the conversation, followed by the sound of a heavy hand clapping over another person’s back. The faint wheeze that followed told you Gyro was the victim of the hand, and Joseph brought his voice back down to a whisper.

“I married my wife after two weeks, and we were married for over sixty years! Love hits you quick. Have you asked her out?”

Subdued, Gyro answered. “…Yes. Don’t you dare tell him, Joseph.”

“I won’t, I won’t. Did she say yes?”

Gyro sighed. “She didn’t say no. It’s kind of complicated.”

“If it’s meant to be,” Joseph whispered sagely; you could picture the man nodding his head. “It’ll happen. No matter how complicated.”

“Yeah,” Gyro sounded morose. “I guess.”

Acutely aware that you were eavesdropping on something incredibly personal—even if it was about you—you hurried to get dressed and leave, suddenly feeling like the best place to be was anywhere but in Caesar Zeppeli’s house listening to Gyro and Joseph. When you had stepped out, Joseph did his best to pull himself into an expression that could pass as serious, the effort borderline comical once you noticed the expectant path his eyes traveled between you and Gyro.

He really wants this to happen, doesn’t he?

Gyro gave you a weak smile, rising to his feet.

“You have to go, don’t you?”

“I do,” you answered, checking the clock on the wall. “It’ll be about an hour or so of traffic since it’s rush hour, and that puts me back in Bel Air by three. The sun sets at around five, that gives me two hours before I have to deal with Dio.”

Joseph’s face fell and Gyro looked almost relieved, watching Joseph from the corner of his eye.

“I’ll walk you out,” Gyro said, and Joseph’s expression brightened.

Once you had both stepped out to the front porch, closing the door behind you, Gyro appeared almost awkward.

“You didn’t overhear any of that, did you?”

“Overhear what?” You asked innocently, and he smiled and led you to your car. Giving you a hug that felt almost chaste, he whispered in your ear.

“Come by on Thursday. My Nonno won’t be home. I’ll make today up to you.”

“Maybe,” you whispered back, seeing Joseph’s face floating in the window between a crack in the blinds he had made with his fingers. Hiding a smirk, you pulled Gyro in tighter and kissed him on the cheek before getting into your car, leaving Gyro bewildered and Joseph appearing in a state of euphoric victory as he punched the air.

Rolling down the window, you called out to Gyro. “I’ll call you.”

He only grinned, shaking his head as he walked back into the house and Joseph’s face quickly disappeared from the blinds.

When you arrived back to the mansion, you found it curiously empty save for Mariah and Midler, both of whom were sitting on the couch and diving into a pizza while reruns of The Golden Girls played across the screen.

“I’m still so sad about Betty White,” Mariah sighed through a mouthful of pepperoni. “A star gone too soon.”

“She was fucking ninety-nine years old,” said Midler, staring wide-eyed at Mariah. “How is that ‘gone too soon’?”

“It was three weeks before her hundredth birthday!”

“Again, how is that gone too soon? Why are you getting so worked up about a woman who outlived most of her co-stars, friends, and family?”

“Betty White was a national treasure!” Mariah’s tone was defensive and she pointed at the television. 

“Mariah, you’re from Egypt.”

“So?! She gets what I mean,” Mariah turned and gestured to you, her expression indignant. “Right?”

“Oh, totally,” you agreed with a nod. “Did you know her last words were her husband’s name?”

Mariah looked to be on the verge of sobbing, her face an exaggerated display of desolation. “That’s so heartbreaking, oh my God.”

Midler’s expression was deadpan as she looked at Mariah. “See? They’re reunited now. Because she outlived her husband. Because she was nearly a hundred years old.”

“Is Diego home?” Craning your neck toward the stairs, you addressed them both. “Usually he’s charging down the stairs right now to demand I drive him somewhere.”

“Who? Oh, Little Dio,” Midler frowned, shaking her head. “Some pink haired girl picked him up like an hour ago.”

“You know,” Mariah sighed, settling back into the couch and turning her attention back to the television. “He’s kind of cute. If he wasn’t too young for me and had half the charm and charisma Dio has, I’d go for it.”

“Isn’t he like nineteen? Twenty? He’s only a couple years younger than us.”

“Still too young. I like them old.”

Taking that as your cue to leave, you headed to the guest house, your phone going off in your pocket. Half expecting it to be Gyro, your stomach dropped when you realized it was Dio.

Come back in and come upstairs.

Ignoring it, you set an alarm for six in the evening and took a nap, your thoughts curiously wandering over to Gyro and to the cold water as you drifted off. When you awoke, it was to complete silence; quickly you freshened up and went in to the main house, finding it filled with the average haunts. Pucci was in deep conversation with Mariah and Midler, Vanilla Ice glaring at you from the living room while you set up your laptop at the kitchen island, and by the stairs Dio waited for you, his expression inscrutable.

“You didn’t come,” he said quietly, walking over to you. 

“I was tired. I took a nap. My shift starts at nightfall, remember?”

“So it does,” he replied, his glare like daggers. “When it’s over, meet me upstairs.”

“Does it have to do with work?”

“Yes.” Irritation crept into his voice and he stalked off, tapping Pucci on the shoulder and silently urging him to follow.

Calling it a night precisely at half past one in the morning, Diego stumbling through the door just ten minutes beforehand with a red face and lopsided grin, almost jovial as he waved to you before bolting up the stairs, you went back to the guest house and ignored the second text Dio had sent you demanding you come upstairs. Part of you had a feeling it was not work related; the other half did not want to be alone with him. After getting ready for bed, you fell to the mattress, your mind wandering to the way Gyro had touched you back at the beach, the feel of him running his hands over you in the shower, and the way the water seemed to cling to his skin in all the right places. That tiny little throb at the beach came back with a vengeance at the thought, and you stared at your phone.

Maybe he was off limits, but texting him was not.

So. Ero gentile prima, huh? What was the other part again?

His reply came sooner than you had expected, almost as if he had his messages open and was wavering between whether or not to text you.

If I tell you, you’re just going to use Google Translate to figure it out and then the lesson is sabotaged. And that’s a dangerous topic for how late it is, bambina.

That piqued your interest, and you sat up in bed.

I swear I won’t.

You opened Safari, immediately went to Google Translate and waited.

La prossima volta che ci vediamo, ti fotto così forte che non puoi camminare.

The translation sent the faint beat at your core to a full blown hammering drum: I’m going to fuck you so hard that you can’t walk.

Your mouth dry, you sent a response.

Didn’t want to put me through more strenuous activities, right?

“I swear I won’t” LIAR.

Then, after a beat, he added: 

You’re not going to ask me what I’m wearing, are you?

No. 

What are you wearing?

His next response was a selfie. He was in the bathroom, shirtless and brushing his teeth, eyebrows raised. A blonde trail of hair at the base of his bellybutton led sharply down, dipping past the waistband of his sweatpants, cleaving through the v-shape that defined the junction of his hips, and you found yourself squeezing and rubbing your thighs together at the sight.

Is this sexy enough for you? Are you all hot and bothered?

Daring seized you and you took off your shirt and pajama bottoms, leaving you clad only in underwear. Angling the camera to where it was clear it was all you were wearing without giving anything away, you sent it and waited.

Holy shit, I guess it was. Show me what I missed out on earlier.

You sent another, keeping your face out of frame and including everything else, hooking a thumb under the side of your panties and pulling them downward.

Brb I’m gonna go throw myself off a cliff for not fucking you.

Take off your panties.

You complied to a point, sending him a picture of your underwear tossed to the floor. His only reply was a dead eyed emoji with a straight line for a mouth. Then he sent another picture, leaving you reeling at the sight of him. Another mirror selfie, he had ditched the sweatpants, his boxer briefs clearly outlining his hard on. Sucking air through your teeth, you slid your hand between your legs and ran a finger down your slit, tracing over the arousal that slicked over the skin. Your nerves screamed in relief at the sensation, and you typed back with one hand.

I ditched mine, ditch yours.

Show me and I will.

You sent him a video, your breasts in full view as you slowly massaged your clit, making sure it had caught the shallowing pace of your breathing and the lewd sound of your fingers against your sex before you sent it.

Gyro’s reply was one word.

FUCK. 

There was dead air for too long, far too long, and you began to wonder if you had been out of line. If this was all some big lapse in common sense and you had misconstrued the situation, if you had been too forward; nerves got the better of you and you grimaced, a frustrated sigh leaving you as you smacked your forehead with the heel of your palm.

Until he sent a video of his own, in bed, languidly stroking his dick, his breathing both measured and shallow as he wiped at the bead of precum on the tip with his thumb and brought it down the length of his shaft.

Wish you were here, amore.

“Well, damn,” you whispered, all paranoia dissipating as you plotted your next move.

This was normal. This was what people did when they were attracted to each other, they flirted and sent each other messages that would make a priest faint, and they agonized to the people they kept close about whether or not the other person actually liked them. Dates were normal, kisses and showers and spending time together—all of that was normal. Gyro was normal. He would not steal a house and millions of dollars, or force you into uprooting your life on pain of death because of a one night stand. He would not spend his time vacillating between pure evil and unmitigated ardor. He would never hurt you.

Gyro was good, he was safe, and you had missed the promise of safety.

Tell me what you would do to me if I was.

Leaning over and reaching under the bed, you felt around with an outstretched hand for the shoebox that held within it a vibrator and prayed it was fully charged, a contented hum singing past your lips when your fingertips brushed against the box’s edge. Bringing it up to the bed and setting it beside you, you took off the lid and unearthed it from beneath the shirt it was hidden by to tuck it further away from prying eyes and turned it on the lowest setting, positioning it between your legs while you waited for that blinking ellipses to turn into words.

I would send an entire paragraph of exactly what I want to do to you right now if I could stop thinking about how good your pussy felt wrapped around my cock for longer than five seconds.

But if you were here right now I would ruin you.

You tried to picture it. The sweat that slicked his brow while you straddled him, faint in the dark, the way his tongue slid over you like he had known from the beginning just the way to make you melt for him, how he had winked before going down on you. In your mind, for a moment, you were able to taste the champagne on his lips and feel his breath tickling your ear while he whispered his affections. 

For one blissful, normal moment, the memory of him had sent pleasure through you like a roaring tide.

Then in an act of treachery, your mind wandered from the feeling of fluttering lips down the expanse of your neck and champagne-tinged whispers to broad hands like alabaster clamped on your hips, making you come alive and threatening to undo you all at once. Recoiling, you threw your phone and the wand to the blankets and sat up, bringing a hand to your mouth.

“No,” you whispered to no one, horrified. “Not you. God, no. What the fuck? What the fuck is wrong with me?”

Your days, your nights, not even your most intimate thoughts were safe. It always came back to him, with his eyes that changed like falling leaves in autumn and those three little moles that gave him the devil’s luck. Like a ghost, he haunted you, always waiting for his next scare. Shaking, you picked up your phone and typed as if nothing was wrong.

I want to see you cum.

I lied, you might ruin me instead.

Another video popped up, Gyro’s fist pumping furiously over his cock while his breathing fell into a ragged gasp. Then a strangled moan that he had very obviously tried to hold back hissed past his teeth and his cock twitched, spilling seed over his hand and lower abdomen in erratic spurts as his breathing slowed. 

So much for being a gentleman, he typed.

It felt like a courtesy to return the favor and you faked it for him, your heart no longer in it and your mind elsewhere. When you had sent the video to him, he had bought it fully, telling you that next time you came for him it would be by his tongue and you allowed yourself a bitter smile before putting your phone on the nightstand and falling back to the pillows in frustration.

“You son of a bitch,” you whispered, eyes trained on the ceiling. “Why you?”

It’s just because he’s hot. That’s all. You can think someone is objectively hot while hating every fiber of their being, right? It’s not like I’m going to act on it, he’s literally evil and a body thief. Not to mention you were secretly planning his demise at Norms a fucking week ago.

Your mind wandered back to the expanse of his shoulders, blacking out the scar on his neck and the birthmark on his back; the memory of his lips on yours felt like fire, and you settled into the pillows. It frustrated and horrified you and sent a hammering ache through you, leaving you stupefied and reaching back between your legs.

Be horrified later, just get it over with and go to bed. 

Tracing wet circles over your clit, silencing your ragged breathing through the pillow, you surrendered to thoughts of piercing canine teeth like bleached bone in the moonlight and hair like spun gold fanned out against leather interior; hideous stone walls and the dig of old wood at your knees and the the fullness he brought as he stretched you tight. Staggering in their vividness, the hateful arousal they carried with them were made painfully clear in the way your breath hitched.

God, you wanted him. 

There’s something deeply fucking wrong with me.

Picking up the hitachi, you turned it back on and hovered it over your clit, closing your eyes and losing yourself in the relentless thrum it sent through you, only vaguely picking up on the sound of a door opening and closing.

“I was wondering why I heard panting.” Dio chuckled, materializing from the dark as your eyes flew open. A high-pitched scream shot from your mouth and you turned off the wand before you threw it from between your legs, drawing up the blankets to your neck.

Why do I feel like this is the universe punishing me right now?

“Get out,” you bellowed, horror and fury sweeping your hand to the door. 

Cocking an eyebrow, he smirked.

“Oh, now you choose to feign modesty? As if I haven’t had my tongue exactly where that,” he gestured to the wand, his tone bored. “Was just seconds ago. While I don’t at all regret intruding, I came to ask how training went, since you seem to be incapable of answering a text message.”

He gave you a long look, his eyes trailing down the shape of your body under the blanket before moving over to the vibrator. “I suppose I understand now how that may not have been possible.”

“Go away,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Why are you like this?”

“Why are you so embarrassed, little pet? You can’t seem to bring yourself to look me in the eye.”

He drew closer, a knowing malice glowing vermilion in his gaze. “Who were you thinking about, writhing against that little wand of yours?”

There was no use lying, the look on his face was clear enough. He knew. He knew and lorded it over you, taunting you with it. He knew, and it killed you that he knew.

“You,” you stammered, your face burning. “You.”

“Were you?” He slunk low, lunging toward the bed. A gasp left you, fear rattling in your lungs. Picking up the wand, he ripped back the blankets, leaving you exposed and wrenching apart your thighs. Alarm bells rang out from deep within you and you brought your arms over your chest to cover yourself, earning a mocking laugh from Dio.

“Enough theatrics,” he crooned, wrenching your arms down. “You’re not very good at them.”

A small click sent dread pooling in the pit of your stomach, the low vibration over the air making your heart pound. He looked nothing short of evil standing over you, his palm a crushing weight on your sternum pushing you down to the mattress. 

And yet the sight of him made you ache.

Taking the spot on the bed next to you, he was imposing and frightening and beautiful all at once. He spread you open with his fingers, running the head of the vibrator over your clit before pressing it onto you, turning up the speed to the point of it inflicting pleasure and pain.

But you did not want him to stop. 

“It hurts,” you whimpered through clenched teeth, numbly reaching for him as you twitched and squirmed. “It’s too much.”

“Oh, I know it does, little pet. I want it to hurt. I want it to be too much for you to take. You’re going to suffer for me, and I will enjoy every moment.”

He turned it up to the highest speed and you yelped, wriggling back to lessen the pressure. It was enticing agony, sending your eyes fluttering to the back of your head and tears streaming down your face. His expression one of beautiful cruelty, he fixed you in place, pushing you down into the mattress with enough force to leave you winded.

“I want you just like this,” he whispered. “I want you crying.”

Violently he brought you to full and you screamed, your body surrendering to the convulsions it brought on and your walls clenching around nothing, your scream subsiding to a wracking gasp as your eyes stung and blurred.

“Please,” you mumbled incoherently, the word a mix between a moan and a sob. “Please.”

“Tell me again,” he whispered as he turned off the wand and set it aside, gently wiping away your tears. “Tell me it was me you wanted.”

Your voice sounded thick and clumsy and you looked up at him through watery eyes. “It was you.”  

Soundly, he slapped you; unlike before, this time it stung.

“You pathetic little fool,” he hissed. “Are you so sure?”

Undressing, he slotted his hips between your legs, his stare cold. With little warning, he tore into you and you cried out, pain blistering through you like wildfire. Stunned, you reached for him.

“Dio, wait, I—”

“Shut up,” he growled, clapping a hand over your mouth. “You wanted this, didn’t you? You wanted me?”

You nodded against his palm, dazed and horrified by his fury.

But not like this.

“Then take it.”

It felt like he despised you, truly loathed you, fucking you as if you were little more than a battered toy at his disposal. Pain spread through you colored by fear, pooling out from your core and leaving you cold. A whimper burst from your lungs and he moved his hand from your mouth to seize you by the neck, applying just enough pressure to afford you to breathe and little else, his face pure venom as he moved in you.

Then it changed.

Something sparked in his eyes and you could feel him hesitate for a brief moment before he slowed, his hips rolling into you in a pace that was almost gentle and he took his hand from your throat, cradling your nape and bringing you close.

“You beautiful fool,” he whispered, and he kissed you. 

You met his kiss with no small amount of whiplash from his sudden shift in mood and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, your legs securing themselves around his waist. A moan that bordered on feral left him and he became frenetic, almost needful in his thrusts; all too quickly he pulled himself away from you and finished on your stomach, hateful bewilderment in his eyes. Bemused, you watched him clean himself off and get dressed, struggling to find the right thing to say as he moved through the room.

All you could manage was his name, but it held within it a thousand things you wished you could say.

“Dio.” 

I agreed to kill you a week ago. I’m terrified of you. I don’t want you to leave. Help me make sense of all this. I wish I never met you. I don’t want to kill you. I don’t want you to die. I want to forget this ever happened. I want my life back. I want—

He paused but did not turn, his posture stiff. When it became clear there was nothing else you were going to say, he shook his head.

“I’m not sure why I expected this to be satisfying,” he said quietly. “In all other avenues except your employment, you’ve only proven to be a disappointment.”

He shut the door behind him when he left, the booming slam and faint splintering of wood that split through the air like cannon fire rattling down to your bones, the television on the wall shaking from its force. You watched him go, shock fixing you to the mattress, drawing up your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around your legs. It reminded you of all the earthquake drills you had ever done in elementary school—hunker down beneath a desk, huddle up into a ball, grab a hold of something and pray to God it would all be over soon. He had left you in the aftermath, trembling at ground zero, everything around you stilling in the disquieting silence.

Lowering your head, you sat there and cried.

***

He was in trouble and he knew it.

Staring at the screen, he looked at the message he had typed up; hitting send would seal his fate, dooming him to commit to the universe the very thing he had actively wished to avoid. Sending it was admitting, mainly to himself, that he had thought of her the moment he had opened his eyes—that he had looked to his side and found his bed empty, and to his surprise he was disappointed by it. That he caught himself looking through her Instagram feed as he sat up in bed, thinking of the way she had fallen asleep in his lap the day before, how pretty she had looked before he had thrown her in the water—how pretty she had looked in it, and after they had gotten out—and how he was worried to the point of going into the shower with her when he realized how tired she was, how despite his flirting sex was the furthest thing from his mind until she had texted him.

With a small frown, he hit send.

Buongiorno, amore.

Morning? Gyro it’s 1:30pm.

He laughed, refusing to acknowledge the way it had sent butterflies through his stomach when another text had appeared. 

Buon pomeriggio? I googled it.

“You like her,” he said aloud, looking up at the ceiling as he fell back to the pillows. “You idiot.”

Chapter Text

If the road to hell was paved with good intentions, then the road to normalcy was a path built upon ruin. Standing atop it all, filled with blurry recollections of sandy blonde hair and breaths like the sun marred by skin like moonlight and eyes like hellfire, the ruin was tangible; from above, your life was unrecognizable. But in the nightmare the world had become, what other option was there than to seek it out?

And so the path to normalcy had led you to grab the purse you had not picked up in three months, toss your wallet and keys into it, get into the car and pull up to the Denny’s parking lot blocks away from the old bar whose regulars you once knew by name; to its sleek white patio furniture past the cramped indoor bar on a rooftop overlooking Los Angeles and towering outdoor heaters, to deep blue LED lights and a sea of perfectly straight bleached teeth and spray tans and barely-there dresses in the middle of February. In a way, it felt like coming home from a long, horrible vacation—or returning home from war. Yet amongst the normal stood a harrowing reminder of the divide that planted you firmly in the bizarre, one you had been striving to find a merciful reprieve from. A five-foot-three reminder, with a permanent sneer and a thicket of shaggy flaxen hair, blue eyes surveying the throng with distaste.

“This,” Diego yelled over the music, “is what I picture when I think of LA. A god awful viper pit of people trying to look like Barbies and Kardashians with no in-between.”

“Why are you even here?” You yelled back. “You’re nineteen, you can’t even drink! Why’d you come with me?”

“You’ve been shambling around the house for three days looking like you’re seeking out the nearest bridge to throw yourself from! I thought you’d finally worked up the nerve.”

“Aw,” you teased, the sentiment marred by your shouting. “Were you worried about me?”

“No,” he smirked, though his eyes clearly said otherwise. “I was going to tell you to do a backflip.”

“Come on,” you grabbed his hand and yanked him along toward the bar top, fully aware of the gaggle of girls whispering behind their hands and pointing at him.

Behind the bar you could recognize a few faces, including the coworker that had been with you on Halloween—another painful reminder of the divide. He had spotted you first, nearly dropping the glass in his hand.

“Holy shit,” he yelled, throwing his hands over his heart in a mocking display of terror. “I thought I saw a ghost.”

“Hey,” you said with a small wave, and he looked over to Diego.

“Wait, is that the guy from—wasn’t he taller? Like, gargantuan? He’s like a foot shorter than I remember.”

Diego narrowed his eyes at you, understanding fully whom he had meant.

“No, this is his little brother,” you replied smoothly, pushing the thought of Dio as far out of your mind as you could muster. If Diego had noticed the way you had slightly cringed and the way your ears reddened, he said nothing, instead casting a disparaging eye to the packed bar.

“Why is it so goddamn loud?” Diego shrunk in on himself, suppressing the urge to cover his ears.

“You get used to it,” you shouted. “It’s always like this.”

Dumbfounded, he turned to the crowd. “It’s Tuesday.”

One of the patrons beside Diego turned, flushed and laughing uproariously, another gaping maw of bleached teeth leering from the mass.

“It’s chewsday, innit?” They bleated, laughing before turning back to their group.

Diego scowled, and you swallowed a laugh before turning back to the bar.

“Two shots of whiskey and a coke.”

“How old is he?” A bartender you did not recognize pointed to Diego, eyebrows raised.

“Old enough to drink the coke,” you answered, smiling and opening a tab. Fishing for your wallet, you brushed against something clunky and made of plastic in the purse, peering into its contents in the dim bar lights and making out the rough shape of a taser gun.

Holy shit, I still have that? I forgot I had that.

You passed a credit card over to the bartender and with drinks in hand, Diego’s expression sour as he held his glass of coke aloft, you shepherded him to the patio. Largely abandoned due to the cold, it lay outside the cacophony of shouting voices and thrumming bass, and you and Diego sat down across from one another at the far end of the patio. Casting a bewildered eye to the running jacuzzi that lay uninhabited on the other side of the bar, he settled into the quiet, staring down at his coke as you set the shot glasses down before peeking up at your shoulder.

“You’ve got a spider on you. Just there.” He pointed to your shoulder and you turned, inspecting the spot; when you found nothing and looked back at Diego, both shot glasses had been drained and he was smirking, drinking coke from a straw to chase down his ill-gotten spoils.

“So,” he set down the glass, crossing his arms. “What did he do this time? I’m assuming that’s why you’ve been walking about like a wraith.”

“You really want to know?”

“I’m asking out of courtesy, I’d prefer if I didn’t know.”

“Well, since you insisted on coming with me, too bad. You have to hear about it now.”

Leaving out the more explicit details, you filled Diego in and he listened intently, shaking his head all the while. Aghast, he leaned forward when you had finished.

“No. You’re joking. You’re having a right laugh right now, because there is no way you’re that stupid. I’d tell you to get a therapist but there’s really no saving you, is there? You’ve gone absolutely mad.”

“It’s not like I sought him out, he just like—” you flailed your arms toward the empty space beside you. “—Appeared out of fucking nowhere like a goddamn vampire.”

“I wonder why,” Diego retorted in a dry voice.

“I think,” you said quietly, your voice almost lost to the music, “I might be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Just with all of this, like not even including Dio and Gyro? The job, the knowledge of what brought that job on, all of the crazy Stand shit and Hamon and just the enormity of it all? It’s a lot to deal with. I thought I could just adapt and cruise through it but I feel like I’m walking through a bunch of landmines and guilt.”

Giving you a long look, Diego scoffed. “On the verge? I’d say you’re already having one. No one would be this stupid without being under extreme mental duress. Please don’t cut your own bangs next, they wouldn’t look good on you.”

Then he sighed, rubbing his temples and shaking his head. “Can’t believe I have to be your damn therapist. How am I the voice of reason? I’m bloody nineteen. I should be having the breakdown.”

“I’m amazed you haven’t, honestly.”

“Unfortunately, I suppose my lineage predisposes me to actually adapt to situations such as the one I’m now forced to be in.”

The comment had prompted you to think back on just how much Diego had dealt with since his arrival; how he had been sucked into not only Dio’s chaos but your own, and somehow between the two had turned against his. Briefly, you wondered if it had been that way from the beginning—it would not have surprised you, given Diego’s personality—but that wonder was dwarfed by how much he had seemed to change through it and the strange friendship it had brought on. Entertained by the thought, you watched Diego, seeing more clearly why he had insisted on accompanying you in the way his flippant attitude wavered when you had went quiet.

He’s worried about me. Poor kid.

To lighten the mood, you shrugged. “It’s kind of weird that we’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Vitriolic best buds,” Diego snarked. “Fire forged friends. We’re not friends, we’re tropes.”

Snickering, you shook your head. “Whatever it is, at least we don’t have to be stuck in this alone.”

“You should consider being alone for a while,” Diego quipped. “You don’t exactly keep good company. Which brings me to yet another question I have to ask despite wishing I didn’t: what are you going to do about Gyro?”

“I dunno, that bridge idea was pretty solid. Maybe I’ll jump into an alternate timeline where I have the same face and but a different name and things played out better. Can’t promise I can do a backflip, but I’ll try for you.”

His only response was an amused snort; shaking his head, he picked the coke back up and took another drink before staring down at the empty shot glasses and looking back up at you.

“Go get more whiskey.”

“Weren’t we just talking about how you’re too young to drink?”

“Not for me,” he replied, clearly lying. “I meant for you. If you’re going to drag me here to commiserate over our mutual discomfort toward our living situation and your mess of a life, we’re going to get you drunk enough to where you forget I’m too young to drink.”

Then he drew himself up and crossed his arms over his chest, scowling. “What kind of a backward society is America, anyway? You can go die in a war and vote, buy a gun, and you’re legally considered an adult all at eighteen, but you can’t even get a pint to cope with it all? How do you people survive?”

You stood and began to make way to the bar counter, giving Diego a small shrug. “Honestly, we don’t know either.”

Inside had seemed more packed than it had been when you arrived, and navigating through the crowd proved difficult. Squeezing past a couple that seemed to forget they were not at the privacy of their own home but instead a very public bar, you pushed through to the edge of the counter and quickly ordered two more shots, focusing only on grabbing them up and bringing them back to the empty patio without spilling a drop.

Once you had safely returned to where Diego sat, it was to find him absorbed into his phone, his brow furrowed and the set of his shoulders an ominous portent. Suddenly wary, you sat down.

“What’re you looking at?”

“Midler’s Instagram feed.” He glanced up at you, his face grim. “Does this look familiar to you?”

Turning the screen toward you, the first of three stories showed Midler amidst the throng of people inside the same bar you and Diego were at, smoldering into the camera. The second focused on the drinks she had ordered, it showed a glass of red wine with an aperol spritz beside it. The third, most terrifying one was a still photo of her hand laced in another’s against the wood of the indoor bar top, a hand pale as bleached bone that looked all too familiar; the same hand that had been at your throat not three days before. Checking the time it was taken, you saw quite clearly that it had been recent—eleven minutes ago. At the sight of it, a chill that had nothing to do with the cold seeped through you, and you turned to Diego to find him watching the inside of the bar with gritted teeth.

“He’s here.”

“I didn’t even see them inside,” you whispered, drawing yourself up. 

“He didn’t want you to, I’m assuming. He’s following us. I don’t think he counted on Midler trying to flaunt him as her boyfriend.”

You looked at him, stonefaced. “What do we do?”

“We wait,” Diego answered bleakly, grabbing one of the shot glasses and downing its contents. “He’ll turn up any minute now.”

“Do you think he heard anything?”

“What’s there to hear? From what you said, he knows everything already. He’s waiting to see what we do. Strange,” he fell pensive, eyeing the crowd. “All this time, I couldn’t pick up on him. No scent, nothing. I wonder if the amount of people cloaked him. D’you think he was counting on that?”

“Maybe,” you tensed as you answered him, following his stare. “But I don’t know.”

For what felt like hours, you waited in terse silence, but he never came. There was no showdown, no menacing visage peeking out at you both from the crowd; after a while, you and Diego were sure he had left. Once you had both agreed a confrontation was not in the cards for you tonight, you had both rose from the patio and closed the tab, heading back downstairs and through the steadily growing cluster of tents around the pavement toward the Denny’s parking lot.

“Why’d you have to park so far,” Diego groaned.

“I don’t have employee access to the parking garage and I’m not about to spend thirty bucks for parking.”

“So we have to walk through Skid Row to make sure you save thirty dollars?”

“It’s Skid Row adjacent, not Skid Row. Quit being so prissy. I have a taser, you have a Stand.”

Giving you a quizzical look, Diego turned to you, not breaking his stride. “Is that a nickname for Hamon?”

“No,” you replied, opening your purse and tilting its contents toward him, the taser jostling around your keys and wallet. “It’s a literal taser gun. I always kept one on me when I worked there, now it’s just habit for when I’m in the neighborhood.”

“Well, all right,” Diego nodded slowly, surprise evident on his face. “Use it on Dio next time he leers at you from the shadows. And film it for me, would you? I’d like to have that preserved forever.”

When you had reached the car, it was to find Dio leaning against it, alone, arms crossed and a faintly amused expression on his face. Midler was nowhere to be seen, the parking lot almost completely empty with the exception of the few cars that belonged to the diners and employees within.

“Have fun?” He kept his voice light, an incongruous geniality that stood at odds with the glare he had swept over you with.

“Yeah,” you answered, matching his speech with a saccharine smile. “We did. What about you and Midler? You did bring her with you to spy on us, didn’t you?”

With over exaggerated interest, you looked around the parking lot, pretending to look bewildered and savoring the falter in Dio’s facade, annoyance creeping into his stare at being called out. “Where is she, by the way?”

“I sent her home.” Letting his stare trail over to Diego, he stepped forward and made a sweeping gesture toward you both. “You two have been spending a lot of time together as of late, haven’t you? What is it you do when I’m not around?”

“You’re always around,” Diego muttered; clearly fed up with the theatrics, he blew past Dio and pulled insistently on the passenger door handle until you unlocked the car.

“Whiskey,” Dio murmured, a knowing smile laden with enmity stretching slowly across his lips. “I’ve almost forgotten entirely how it tastes, yet I can still smell it so clearly.”

Diego froze, tensing as Dio went on.

“Alcoholism runs in our blood, no doubt a pollution introduced by my forebears. I thought it would have died out over the years. But what else can I expect from someone who would willingly aid a Joestar when he had everything to gain from his demise, and runs around like a lost puppy nipping at the heels of the first woman that shows him kindness? Will you poison her once she’s stopped driving you around and buying you shots, too, Diego?”

What?

“Shut up.” Diego’s voice was nothing short of frightening; it held within it true anger, Dio had found the crack in his armor with ease. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Victory glowed carnelian red in Dio’s eyes and he moved in for the kill.

“I don’t? So you didn’t kill one of your foster mothers? I read the articles about it, did you truly think you would have gained an inheritance? That no one would suspect the gutter rat from East London? She hadn’t even adopted you. Sloppy work, Diego. Honestly, with how much you’ve failed at everything, I’m embarrassed that you come from me. You’re an embarrassment to the bloodline.”

“That’s it!” Diego slammed the car door with such ferocity that its entire frame shook and he rounded on Dio, teeth bared and hands balled into fist. “You unrepentant, vile, unfashionable, foul, absolute bastard. Say that again, I dare you.”

“Unfashionable?” Dio smirked. “And yet you’re the one in a baby blue turtleneck.”

“It’s a jumper, you muppet!”

“It’s hideous. And though I’m loath to repeat myself, I’ll do it just this once: you are an embarrassment to the bloodline.”

“Hold my coat,” Diego snapped at you, tossing the wadded up bundle of clothing in your direction. Fumbling, you caught it, alarm sweeping in as Diego crouched. “I’m going to beat him to a bloody pulp. No Stands, no vampire powers. We settle this like men, granddad.”

He laughed, cocking his head to the side. “Do we? All right. Fine.”

Then he drew his hand back and in one languid motion, punched Diego hard enough to knock him to the ground.

“You son of a bitch,” Diego spat, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. “I’m going to kill you dead.”

He lunged, Dio sidestepping out of the line of fire and sending Diego wobbling over the pavement. Catching his balance quickly, he landed a swift kick to Dio’s side, weaving out of the way as he aimed another punch at Diego.

“Okay—hey, hey,” you bellowed, diving between the two of them and pushing distance between them with your hands. “That’s enough! You are not white trash, stop fighting in a fucking parking lot like you are! Jesus Christ.”

“Stay out of this, little pet,” Dio glared down at you, his eyes screaming murder. “Don’t think you’re above my disdain either.”

Doing a double take, you raised an indignant brow. “Me? What the hell did I do?”

Shoving Diego out of the way, Dio turned his ire to you, all levity gone. “Was he any good? Gyro, I mean.”

So we’re finally here.

You blanched at the name, your arms falling limp to your sides. Diego went eerily still, his hand frozen at his chin, and he looked between you and Dio with wide eyes. Malevolence emanated from Dio as he advanced, daring you to challenge him.

“I would assume not, considering the spectacle I walked into the same night you had left his company. Writhing in those sheets and pleasuring yourself to the mere memory of me alone, begging me to take you then and there like a whore in a brothel.”

“That’s uncalled for, Dio,” Diego said, stepping forward with clear unease, all anger swallowed up by the turn in conversation and the new threat present within it.

“Quiet.” Dio pushed him back down to the pavement with a swift flick of his wrist and rounded on you. “You didn’t answer my question, little pet. Was he any good? Did you scream out his name while he fucked you, or was that just a little show you put on for me? I’d like to hear it from you.”

Diego’s eyes bulged; briefly, you feared they would pop out of his head. Dio went on, reveling in his unfettered animosity.

“But why stop there? I have more questions. Who is next? I had you for Christmas and Halloween. Gyro had you on New Year’s Eve. Valentine’s Day is approaching, will it be Diego? I’d like to know, I want to see who I should place my bets on.”

Gritting your teeth, you struck him so forcefully across the face with your palm that it had sent pain ringing to your elbow; the only response you would dignify his questions with. He stood, frozen, his head just slightly to the side, his cheek bright red. Behind him, Diego again clambered to his feet, his jaw hanging open as his eyes moved from your raised hand to his cheek as Dio seized your wrist in his grip.

“Diego,” Dio sounded almost bored, not turning around as he addressed him; his eyes were fixed on you, hate seeping crimson in their depths. “If you possess even the slightest bit of common sense, you will sit back down on that pavement before I snap your neck.”

Hesitantly, Diego sat back down on the ground, glaring at him.  

“Let me go, Dio,” you said quietly.

Letting his gaze travel down your frame and back to your eyes, he gently shook his head. “Do you want to know something?”

His voice was treacherously low as he tightened his grip on your wrist and pulled you close. “The only reason I have ever kept you around was because you were a pretty little hole. Nothing more. There are no redeeming qualities to you. There is nothing about you that stands out, or makes you special. It’s why me, Gyro, and every other man that has ever fucked you never bothered to make anything more of it. We’ll fuck you and then seek out better company because we see it in you, we see how worthless you are.”

He threw your wrist down, savoring the look of pained shock on your face. “You are nothing more than a way to pass the time. It would be so endearing that you assumed you were important enough to be anything else, were it not so painfully embarrassing for you. Did you really think you mattered?”

Shaking, you met Dio’s gaze squarely, massaging your wrist. Something had snapped in you, irrevocably severing the panic Dio had instilled in you from the day you had met. In its place was startling clarity, the petty creature beneath the veneer earning only your disdain.

You were done being afraid.

“Did you think you did?” It was imperceptible, but Dio flinched, and you seized on it. “Is that why you’re so jealous?”

He sneered, contempt rounding out the sharp curve of his lip. “Jealous? What on earth would I be jealous of? I already had you.”

Spite threw the words from your tongue, and you steeled your gaze. “But I still chose someone else.”

“Ha,” Dio barked out a scathing laugh. “A one night stand isn’t choosing someone. Were that the case, we’d be married by now.”

Just as he had sunk his teeth into Diego’s weak point, you did everything in your power to do the same. “Who said it was once? That’d be a boring relationship, wouldn’t it?”

“Relationship?” Dio spat the word out like venom. “Oh, don’t tell me he’s your boyfriend.”

“Why do you care if he is?”

“I don’t.” His voice fell like ice around you. “You severely overestimate your importance to me. You could die tomorrow and I would not bat an eye.”

“Really?” Bold defiance caught you in its jaws, and you snatched up Dio’s hand. Pressing it against your throat, you challenged him, sharpening your gaze like a knife. “Kill me now, then, because we all know how you tend to solve your problems with murder.”

At that Diego almost stood, falling back into stillness when Dio had cocked his head in Diego’s direction, silently warning him to stay out of it.

“Your constant melodramatics are exhausting,” he sighed, falling back to his detached boredom. “Nor are they worth my time.”

“You’re the one that picked this fight. See it through, Dio.”

“I’d rather not stain my clothing with your blood,” he pulled back his hand, frowning in disgust as he wiped it on his shirt. “They cost too much to be polluted by something so common and low. But it doesn’t matter. You’re so irrelevant to my life that may as well be dead to me.”

“Don’t even fucking pretend you ever gave a shit about me in the first place.”

“And here I had thought you were intelligent. I—” Dio stopped himself, a sharp scoff pushing itself from his chest. “This is useless.”

At that he abruptly turned and left in the direction from where you had came, and Diego rose to his feet. Forced joviality brightened his voice and he gave you a thin smile stained with red, blood dribbling down his chin.

“Look at you, you’ve decked two Brandos and lived to tell the tale.”

God, how am I living here?

“Come on.” Putting an arm around Diego’s shoulders, you steered him back toward the bar. “I know where we can get you cleaned up.”

He waved dismissively, spitting out a trickle of blood onto the pavement. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding. Stop complaining, I’ll buy you a shot.”

A weak laugh left him along with the rush of adrenaline, draining the color from his face as he gave you a lopsided smile. “On second thought, I’m grievously wounded. Lead on, you madwoman.”

As you walked, Diego fell silent, staring into the street ahead. “So, was there something you didn’t tell me about Gyro?”

“No,” you admitted. “I just wanted to wound his pride.”

“It would seem you did. And his face.”

“He deserved it.”

“Next time kick him in the crotch, it’ll hurt more.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you said with a thin smile. “You okay, though? He said some pretty fucked up shit.”

“Yeah,” Diego grew sullen, looking away. “I’m used to it. He’s not bringing up anything I haven’t heard before.”

You elected to not touch on the comments about his foster mother; even with the camaraderie you had developed, judging by his response to the subject it was something staunchly off limits. 

Diego stopped, turning to look back at the parking lot.

“Something’s coming. Something dead.”

“Dio?”

“No. It’s—what the bloody hell?”

Whirling toward its source, Diego pointed to an alley swathed in shadow. 

“That. It’s that.”

“Diego, that’s a dark alley. Those are shadows. It’s probably garbage or something.”

“(Y/N),” he dropped his voice low, taking two steps back. “Look around. The street’s completely empty. No vagrants, no passerby. Those aren’t shadows. Look closer.”

Squinting, you focused on the alley, befuddled by Diego’s sudden shift. Then you saw it.

Like a lurching wave treacherously aimed for the shore, a horde of misshapen black shapes moved out from the alley and down the empty street, the sound of snarling and the snapping of jaws a cacophony of feral hunger. At the forefront of them all stood a stout, withered elderly man with a shock of greying black hair that stood upright and grew outward from a prominent widow’s peak. He moved slowly and with purpose, dressed in a tattered yellow silk tang suit embroidered with black flowers, a placid smile stretched beneath the long Fu Manchu mustache that drooped past his chin, his skin sallow and indescribably wrong in the dappled light. Two thin, long eyebrows were arched upward in amusement and as he approached, his gaze moved slowly from your feet to your face.

“You must be Dio’s progeny,” he said as he drew to a stop, his hands clasped behind his back as he glanced approvingly at Diego. “You do bear a striking resemblance to him.”

This guy would know Dio.

Diego frowned, looking between you and the man. “Who the bloody hell are you?”

“Wang Chan,” he said with a small bow. “I served Dio in a former life. But I serve another now.”

“Well, bloody good for you,” muttered Diego darkly, sneering. Pointing to the direction Dio had walked in, he jerked his head down the street. “He went that way, if you’d like to see him.”

“Dio was capable of great things,” he continued as if Diego had not spoken. “Such abundant promise that he squandered after a century in the ocean. When I had heard he resurfaced, I was sure he would take up the mantle of his fate as a conqueror of man with relish. Instead he sits cozy in his stolen mansion, spending a wealth that isn’t his while dawdling away on the internet for admiration and sending his associates on wild goose chases. A disappointment, really.”

Nonplussed, Diego stiffened beside you. “…Okay.”

Wang Chan’s gaze swept over to you, ever placid. “And you must be Dio’s…assistant. Quite interesting. I assumed he would have gifted you with vampirism, at the very least. Yet you seem so delightfully…human.”

Hunger flashed across his smile, twisting it into a cold mockery of the gesture, and Diego shifted into high alert.

“When I say run,” Diego whispered, “I need you to run. That bellend’s not here to reminisce.”

“I would question why,” Wang Chan prattled on, paying Diego no mind. “But it wouldn’t matter in the end. My orders were inarguably clear. Kill the girl, spare the child.”

His eyes still fixed on you, his expression became an unnerving display of violence. “You distract him from his purpose. Your death will put him back on the path to greatness, human.”

Brandishing his hands out from behind his back, he sported metal gloves with long thin blades and extended his fingers outward while curling them into claws and leaping into the air. With a speed that was nothing short of impressive, Diego shoved you back and jumped to the side, Wang Chan missing by inches as he took a swipe toward where you had both stood. 

“I’ll fight him off.” Diego spared only a moment to give you a passing glance, curling forward and preparing to lunge. Cracks had formed over his face like a broken mirror, his mouth stretched into a snarl. “Run!”

With acrobatic acuity Wang Chan took to the air once more and descended as you scrambled to your feet; this time, you did not move quick enough. Shielding your face from the impact by crossing your arms in front of you, the tips of his knife-like glove dragged down across your forearm. leaving four vertical slashes that gleamed crimson against your skin as blood welled up from the wounds.

Joseph’s voice boomed through your conscience, warm and encouraging. 

Hamon is lethal to vampires.

Dio may not have bestowed upon you any remarkable abilities, but he had pointed you in the right direction to obtain them. However self-serving his reasons were, he had sent you to Joseph and Caesar. Inspiration seized you then and there, veering the pendulum swinging over your fight or flight reflex firmly to fight.

Think back to what Joseph said. It’s your breathing. You have to breathe. Concentrate. This guy is definitely a vampire, so a good hit will make short work of him. As long as he’s pulling some Cirque du Soleil bullshit, though, it’s going to be hard to land one.

“Son of a bitch,” you hissed, grabbing your arm. “At least take off the gloves and fight fair! I’m not even armed. You said it yourself, Dio gave me no powers!”

“Are you stupid?!” Diego bellowed. “Fucking run!”

Then understanding lit up his eyes and he smirked, focusing on Wang Chan.

If he doesn’t take off the gloves I’m fucked. I need a backup plan. Maybe I can throw something charged with Hamon—wait. The taser! I still have the fucking taser! 

Slowing your breath to an even pace, you watched Wang Chan carefully as he paused, momentarily distracted by the sight of blood. From his mouth unfurled an obscenely long tongue, his fangs glinting in the shadows as the creatures behind him roared. Lifting your hands in surrender, you met his gaze squarely as you tried to think of a plausible excuse to grab your purse from the car.

“Look. I don’t mean nearly as much to Dio as you seem to think I do. Like you said, I’m just his assistant. I can call him and have him come over here to prove it. You can even kill me right in front of him, if you think it will set him back on the path to greatness or whatever. Just let me get my cellphone out of my purse, and I’ll call him. Is that okay? Can I do that?”

Composing himself, Wang Chan studied you, his gaze pensive. With a nod, he pointed the purse hanging off your shoulder.

“He did always appreciate such bloodsport. By all means, call him.”

“Okay. Cool. Thanks.” 

You reached into your purse, a wary eye trained on Wang Chan as he drew closer, Diego close behind and shifting his attention to the creatures waiting in the wings. All the while you focused your breathing, that weak spark of Hamon beginning to surge through you in a faint, pulsing jolt.

Good, get close. That’s exactly what I need you to do.

When he was right within striking distance your hand closed against the thick rectangular plastic of the taser’s grip, you turned off the safety and suppressed a smile; a sheer stroke of serendipity letting the two actions coalesce. Focusing on sending the Hamon through it like a conductor while keeping your breathing, you whirled on Wang Chan as that sweet chime sounded off all around you and pulled the trigger, the two barbs of the gun swallowed up in a flurry of gold and amber sparks as they sank into his chest.

A strangled cry tore itself from Wang Chan’s throat as his eyes went wide, his body convulsing from the shockwaves before being engulfed in an explosion of yellow-gold light. The exertion of energy left you staggering where you stood, your arms falling limp at your sides while you tried to catch your breath. All around you the horde of creatures screamed and bellowed; the sound of metal clinking against pavement caught your attention, and you looked up. All that remained of Wang Chan were his claws and his tang suit that lay crumpled in a smoking heap on the ground, the mass he had once commanded still howling in panicked fury where they stood.

“Holy shit,” you breathed, “that actually fucking worked.”

“Don’t celebrate too quickly,” Diego yelled, turning to the encroaching throng. “We’re not out of the thick of it yet.”

The mob lurched forward, incoherent threats splitting from their tongues like pealing rubber on asphalt as they gained on you with incredible speed. Diego lunched forward, unleashing an incomprehensible battle cry that sounded close to something like “oo-shaaah” and swiping at the swarm with hands like claws.

“Ooooh, shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit! I can’t take them all at once, Diego!”

“Did you not just use Hamon?! Do it again!”

“I don’t know if I can! I barely know how to do it!”

“For God’s sake, try!”

Taking a deep breath, you jumped back as the creatures lunged, the outstretched hands at forefront of the swarm colliding with air while you leapt out of their grip. One of the misshapen faces among them seemed to be more focused on you than the others, its eyes frighteningly calm as it dropped down, lost in the mass. Without warning its hand shot out and grabbed hold of your ankle, letting out a mad cackle as a flurry of hands took hold of your legs and arms.

“Goddamnit,” you shouted as they dragged you to the pavement, swinging wildly with the spent taser. “Get the fuck off!” 

Diego bounded toward you, incredulous and annoyed, glaring at the taser in your hand.

“THAT WAS YOUR PLAN? SWING THE TASER ABOUT AND HOPE FOR THE BEST?” He bellowed, fighting his way toward you.

“I thought it would work!”

“HOW—” with a lunge, Diego had sliced one of their heads clean off with his nails.“—WAS THAT SUPPOSED—” he grabbed the heads of two others, knocking them together with a sickening squelch. “—TO WORK, YOU IDIOT?”

Kicking wildly as you wrestled in their grip, you felt your feet connect with something that caved inward like an overripe pumpkin; one of them collapsed to the floor, its head partially deflated by the blow. But they outnumbered you greatly, and in little time they had subdued you. 

Among them, Diego’s voice rang out.

“USE YOUR HAMON, WOMAN!”

“There’s too many of them!”

“IF YOU DON’T WE’RE GOING TO FUCKING DIE!”

We need Dio. He has that weird supersonic hearing right? Maybe if I scream for him he’ll come.

It seemed a last-ditch effort, but it was worth a shot.

“DIO,” you shouted as loud as you could muster. “WHEREVER YOU ARE, STOP BEING A DICK AND HELP US!”

They had clustered around you in a circle, leaving a small gap in the middle of them from which you could see clearly the rooftops and night sky. A dark shadow leapt from the rooftop directly next to where you lay and descended quickly to the ground below before disappearing from sight; the sound of footsteps hitting the pavement immediately followed, and without warning two spurts of bright red fluid that glowed like a set of laser beams shot through the horde. That same familiar change in pressure of a Stand present nearby sank down on you like a cinder block and the zombie nearest to you was launched upward, a torrent of invisible blows landing on its body in visible dents. Amongst the chorus of carnage and shrieks Dio’s haughty laugh echoed.

“Hmph. I had hoped this would pose more of a challenge, it’s been so long since I’ve had a good fight. No matter. I’ll make short work of you weaklings in seconds.”

Then a pale hand shot through the pack, grabbing hold of you by the collar of your shirt and yanking you upward to your feet. You found yourself face to face with Dio, the arrogant expression he wore giving way to cold fury, iridescent fluid dripping down from his withered eye like a tear.

“You. Go back to the bar. Now. I will retrieve you once I’ve dealt with this.”

Nodding dumbly, you sprinted back toward the parking lot; within seconds a set of gnashing teeth sunk deep into the meat of your calf. Just as quickly, a black boot slammed down onto the misshapen head locked on your leg, sending a nauseating crunching sound rippling through the air. In the blink of an eye, you were in the parking lot and standing next to the car with the door to the backseat already opened, the showdown barely visible. Blood stained the calf of your jeans into dark burgundy, the area around the bite ripped open and exposing the massive tears into the muscle and sinew and burning like acid.

How the fuck did I get here?! 

“On second thought, stay.” Dio did not look back at you as he spoke, extending his arm out and shoving you into the car. “Enjoy the show.”

And just like that, he was gone. He had moved so quickly that you could not see it, the only thing assuring you it had happened in the first place being the bright red beams shooting parallel through the horde. You tried in vain to watch; the pain proved too much to handle and you slumped into the back seat, succumbing to the dark creeping into your vision.

When you opened your eyes, it was to faint specks of stars filtering down from gaps in the massive treetops lining the street and fresh air. Limp in his arms, Dio carried you like a bride, the world swimming across your vision in rippling waves that sent your stomach churning and bile into the back of your throat. Every step rattled through your skull with a jolting shake and a weak groan left you, pain throbbing dully across your body.

“You stupid, impetuous little fool,” Dio hissed, jostling you slightly to rouse you to attention when he realized you were awake. “What were you thinking?! Charging against a horde of zombies with no weapon, no Stand, nothing except that pitifully weak Hamon from that oaf, Joseph! What on earth possessed you to think that you stood a chance?”

“I took down some of them,” you protested weakly. “And Diego, he—where’s Diego?”

Bruised and bloodied, Diego’s head peeked over Dio’s arm, giving you a slight wave.

“I’d have to be ran over by a train or something to be killed, don’t worry.”

Dio went on.

“Where is the vampire that commanded them?”

Diego answered for you. “Turned out he was an old friend of yours, Dio. Some prattling git named Wang Chan.”

“Wang Chan?” In disbelief, Dio stared down at you, his pace slowing just slightly as his eyes imperceptibly widened. “He’s still living?”

Offering a weak smile, you suppressed a shudder. “Not anymore.”

He turned toward Diego, not once breaking his stride. “How did you kill him?”

“I didn’t,” Diego answered, pointing to you. At that Dio did stop, looking back down toward you in genuine surprise.

“You killed Wang Chan?”

“Hamon Taser. Dio, I think I’m going to be sick,” you whimpered. 

“Vomit on me and I assure you, I will finish what they started and kill you myself.” 

Then, more softly, Dio spoke, pride evident in his voice. “Regardless, you did well. I may even be proud of you.”

“I—” the sting of vomit and bile seared at your throat, your stomach roiling. “Dio, put me down.”

The urgency that strained each word caught his attention and Dio set you down, angling your body forward and toward the gutter. Clutching a hand to your waist as you stumbled to your knees, you emptied the contents of your stomach into the gutter. A large, cold hand deftly swept back your hair, drawing it away from your face as your body heaved. 

“Revolting,” he muttered over the sound of sick splattering against the pavement. 

“Thanks,” you shot at him as you finished, wiping your mouth with your hand. Sitting up, you took a look around, vaguely recognizing the neighborhood. It was a couple blocks from the mansion, one you had driven through plenty of times before without much thought.

You were in Bel Air.

“Where’s my car.”

“Denny’s,” Diego answered. “Neither of us can drive.”

“We need to get my car.”

“Diego, call Midler or Mariah. Let them know I would them go pick up her car when we return. Get her keys, too.”

Diego reached for something over his shoulder, and dimly you realized he had been carrying your purse. Finding your keys, he shouldered it and brought out his phone, pressing it to his ear.

“Well?” Dio’s tempestuous glare bored into you. “Aren’t you going to thank me?”

Pulling yourself to your feet, you scoffed. “Thanks for making sure I was okay, asshole.”

“That isn’t convincing. Are you not happy I intervened? Would you prefer I left you to be slaughtered next time?”

“Not what I meant.”

He examined you closely, his eyes drifting over everything from the wound on your leg to your bottom lip. Resting on your abdomen, Dio reached forward and gently eased up the hem of your shirt enough to get a clear view of the flesh beneath.

“It doesn’t seem like there’s internal bleeding. You weren’t struck hard enough to merit serious damage. And there’s no grievous head wound. Barring your leg, you appear to be fine. Are you truly so weak that you vomited?”

“It could also be because on top of getting the shit kicked out of me, I have been bouncing around in your arms while you apparently carried me all the way to fucking Bel Air.”

“Could be,” agreed Dio, setting your shirt back down. “But I did not carry you the entire way. We were dropped off ten minutes ago. Diego called an Uber and had it drop us off near home. Since you seem to be so ungrateful, however, I take it you’d like to walk the rest of the way?”

Walking posed a daunting task, the pain in your left leg screaming through your veins like branded iron. 

“No,” you grimaced. “Just move slower.”

Wordlessly he swallowed you back into his grasp, his steps measured and slow as he trekked uphill toward the sprawling estate on the promontory. Keeping your eyes open and trained upward, you focused on the faint stars dotting across the night sky, your gaze occasionally wandering to the sharp downturn of Dio’s lips as he frowned. Brow knotted at the center and staring straight ahead, his disgust was readily apparent. 

“You smell like a drunkard,” he said finally as the ground leveled. 

“That happens when you puke.”

He fell back into silence as Diego fumbled to unlock the door and the three of you slipped into the entryway’s shadow, the house completely dark. Navigating through the quiet estate with ease despite your body encumbering his gait, he took you to the first bathroom he could find and left you there, turning on the lights as he walked out. Your mind still lingering on the way he had leapt in front of you, you gingerly switched on the hot water and began to undress, gingerly lowering yourself into the bathtub while it filled, the heat of the water closing over the scrapes and bruises that scored your skin like a gentle kiss.

For what felt like hours you lay there, letting the water get cold around you as you replayed the night’s events over and over before the water became too cold to stay in and you shambled out from the tub. Pulling the stopper from the drain you watched as the pink-tinged water swirled across the white expanse and to the drain, grabbing a soft bathrobe from the linen closet against the wall. Outside, the mansion was fully lit; from upstairs, the sound of a shower running thundered in the dark, and you knew instinctively that Diego was doing the same.

Pain screamed through you, radiating up from your leg and to your scalp in a relentless throb. Your steps faltering, you sat down on the couch long enough to collect yourself before hobbling to the guest house. Making a beeline for the bathroom medicine cabinet, you rifled through its contents until you found an antiseptic and bandages, gingerly dressing the wound and covering it with a wince. Settling into bed, you lay awake in darkness; within half an hour, there was a knock on the door and Diego crept in, his profound change in attitude and composure unsettling and enough to get you to sit upright.

“Diego? What happened?”

He did not answer and walked further into the room, and slowly you realized he was in a worse state than you would have ever given him credit for. Blue eyes filled with the memory of blood on pavement and skin white as a sheet, his bottom lip cracked and bleeding between the imprint of where his teeth had sank into them, there was no trace of his usual boisterous nature or brash insults when he asked to come in. He cradled his left arm with the hand on his right, his hair and pajamas in wild disarray. He looked every bit nineteen, a kid thrust too early into adulthood and too violently into the chaos of his ancestor, and he looked scared. 

“Don’t get any ideas,” caution filled his voice and he took another halting step forward. “I just—” his voice grew small. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Come here,” you spoke softly, motioning to the space in the bed beside you, setting down your phone and focusing on Diego. “You okay?”

“No,” the word cracked high on his tongue. “And if you tell anyone about this I swear I’ll kill you.”

He did not sit. He crawled into the bed and drew the duvet around him up to his neck, curling in on himself with his back to you.

“I can’t sleep in there. I can’t bloody sleep at all.”

“I can’t sleep either,” you admitted.

Diego turned, angling his head toward you.

“My mum,” he said softly. “It was just me and her most of the time, we lived in East London. She worked two jobs just to keep us afloat, I remember she worked at this kebab shop and sit me at a table in the back to do my homework. Still can’t stand the smell of kebabs from how many I ate growing up.”

A shuddering sigh rocked him and you knew that he was offering you a sliver of his own soul, a part of him guarded close. “She nicked herself at work one day at her other job, we didn’t think anything of it. Then she got sick. Muscle spasms, difficulty breathing and the like. I came home from school one day to find her on the floor, teeth bared. Almost like she was smiling at me. And she wasn’t breathing. I was only ten, I didn’t know what tetanus was. She was too scared of getting fired to call off work, she didn’t want me to go without.”

You held back the condolences that came naturally, knowing Diego well enough to know he would soundly tear into you for showing him sympathy. Instead you put a cautious hand on his shoulder, peeking out from the blanket. 

He went on, his voice wavering. “When I went into foster care, I was moved around a lot. No one wanted a kid that had authority issues and found his dead mum. That couple, the ones with the country house in the Cotswolds, they were different. But the wife, she was sick. Lymphoma. One day I’d came home from school, she was already long gone. Doctors said it was an accidental overdose, she took too many medications. But I was already a bad kid, and my family…well, you know, you’ve met Dio. And it was easier to assume some random poverty-stricken foster kid could kill his foster mother than her dying of natural causes. Rumors started going round. Said I killed her for the money. I stayed six months. The only person who believed I was innocent was her husband.”

Sitting up, Diego grimaced. “I’ve seen a lot of death. I’ve never actually seen something die. I’ve never killed anyone or anything before. I didn’t think about it, I just thought it was my life or theirs. But I can’t stop seeing it all play out when I close my eyes.”

“You were brave out there, you know. I wasn’t scared for a minute because I figured you could take them.”

That bolstered his ego, and he grinned. “I was, wasn’t I?”

“Like a natural,” you reassured him, gently shoving his arm. “Thanks for saving my ass. I owe you one.”

“Damn right, you do. You might even owe me your life.”

A miracle in and of itself, Diego had fallen asleep not long after, still curled up and facing away from you. Yet you could not. Thunderous silence pressed down around you with unrelenting force, keeping your eyes open and your brain wired. There was no way to process what had happened, all rational thought long since exhausted and pain radiating from your leg. Then, despite him not opening the door, you knew Dio had came in. You could feel him before you could see him, the weight of his scrutiny snapping down your spine like a series of wires and pulleys working to break you.

“What do you want, Dio?” You kept your voice calm, ignoring the way your being screamed at his arrival.

“Your leg, is it bandaged?”

“Yeah.”

He cast a disparaging eye to the sleeping lump beside you.

“…Is that Diego?”

“He couldn’t sleep alone in the house.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” Looking to him, you felt it a betrayal to tell Dio everything he had learned. “He just said he couldn’t, curled up there and fell asleep.”

Not wanting to wake Diego, you spoke as low as possible. “There’s something Wang Chan said. He said he worked for another person. This person said not to kill Diego, but I was fair game. I was distracting you from your ‘destined path to greatness’.”

He said nothing, silently motioning for you to continue.

“Someone knows what you’re doing.”

His smile froze over; you were treading onto dangerous territory. Yet his tone remained light, passive as he tilted his head, examining you with feigned curiosity. “And what is it I’m doing?”

Backing down was out of the question. You were already into deep. “Looking for the Stone Masks and the Red Stone of Aja. You’re trying to become the Ultimate Being, aren’t you? Like Kars?”

Dio brought his hands together and clapped slowly, settling into a stance that to anyone else would appear relaxed; knowing him as well as you did, you knew it was a threat. “Bravo, little pet. How did you work that out?”

You answered him with questions of your own. “Why? What do you gain from that? Power? Money?”

“In truth? No. I aspire to something greater. No money, no belongings, no amount of power can bring you true contentment—what I seek is above such things.”

“And the truce with the Joestars, that means nothing to you. Does it?”

His smile grew wider as he drew closer, his footfalls silent on the wood. “Not even a little.”

“I can’t stop you, can I?”

Just above a whisper, his voice held within it an unmistakable warning. Trailing his index finger down the length of your jaw before drawing it back up and caressing your cheek, he knelt by the side of the bed and brought himself eye level to you.

“Killing Wang Chan was little more than a stroke of luck. You couldn’t even kill a zombie. You hid in a car, eager to let Diego do the dirty work for you. It would be laughable to assume someone as weak as you could stop me. But,” his gaze softened and he raised his hands in a gesture of concession. “I recognize potential when I see it. So I’ll offer you a deal.”

Narrowing your eyes, you watched him carefully, searching his face for any trace of deceit. 

“What deal?”

“Join me,” he said quietly. “Be my eyes and ears among the Joestars and glean whatever information from them you can, and give it willingly. Mislead them when they get too close. Outside their reach I’ll train you, mold you into the perfect emissary of my will. I’ll even give you a Stand. And when it’s all over, and the Joestars lay crumpled at my feet, I’ll reward you with something far greater than wealth and power.”

“What?”

“The world,” he answered. “I’ll give you the world.”

“And if I refuse?”

“My darling,” he brought your face close to his, disorienting in his charm. “You should know by now, you don’t have a choice.”

His lips brushed against yours and he laughed, low and soft as it fanned across your lips.

“But you’ll be of little use to me with a savaged leg. Consider this a gift.”

He brought his wrist to his mouth, parting his lips over the skin while not once breaking eye contact. The sharp, wet tear of flesh ripping open sliced through the faint drone of the television and the sound of your breathing and Dio brought it away, holding his wrist aloft as droplets of warmth dripped over your calf. It crept through the bandages and to your skin, burning into the wounds; a pulling feeling that left you unsettled rippled from the bite, and Dio leaned back, clasping his other hand over his wrist and bringing himself to his feet.

“It’s not enough to turn you, so you needn’t worry. Don’t be foolish enough to get injured like that again. I won’t be as generous.”

He walked out, and when the pulling stopped and you had unwrapped the bandages on your leg, you found it fully healed.

Chapter Text

Dio

He had always found mankind to be a repugnant, sniveling mass that deserved every bit of scorn he had thrown its way. Yet Christmas, he had discovered while stuck in a shopping mall, seemed to make them somehow worse. Already he had witnessed two middle-aged soccer moms screaming obscenities at one another while they wrenched a battered PlayStation Five box back and forth like a two-man saw, each of them trying to get it out of the other’s grip; before that, they had walked past a store where two men were near exchanging blows over a necklace each had wanted to purchase for their spouses. 

Dio, a man who had thrived on violence, overall had been appalled by the succession of spectacles that seemed to crop up.

“Why,” he said in a low voice, “did we leave her at home?”

“Because,” Diego gave an exasperated groan, throwing his hands up in defeat. “We’re getting her gifts, Dio. It’s Christmas. We’ve put off shopping until the last minute, and you don’t want to leave her empty-handed on Christmas morning. She’ll remember that.”

“As if I care that she would indulge in something so petty as getting upset over not getting a gift.”

Dio had, in truth, panicked for days, thought he would sooner stand on the roof of the Wilshire Grand Center with outstretched arms and embrace daylight for the first and final time in a century than admit it. Begrudgingly he had allowed a tree to be brought in and decorated at Diego’s behest, ignoring the way he had came alive at her delighted smile when Diego had surprised her with the finished product. Sentiment was foreign to him—wanting to indulge in it a curse. 

Now here he was, defying his very nature for her yet again.

He had purchased one gift only throughout this endeavor, a leather bound Bible for Pucci that halfway through the transaction he had decided he wanted for himself. He had no use for it, but its craftsmanship was exquisite, and the irony of a Bible on his bookshelf had almost made him laugh. After that he had walked with Diego from store to store with mounting irritation, dreaming of wringing the neck of everyone within a ten mile radius for his suffering. 

Diego wandered into a jewelry store, no doubt distracted by how shiny it was. Trailing behind him and daydreaming about being anywhere—even back at the bottom of the Atlantic—than where he was now, Dio surveyed its wares with a bored eye. All the while, an overeager sales clerk with tired eyes and pretty veins pitched gaudy baubles to a balding man at the counter, sneaking glimpses at Diego and Dio with a greedy eye.

Then he saw it.

Draped over a necklace bust by the counter, it was a diminutive gold locket hanging from a thin chain. Engraved along the border was an intricate floral motif and within its center rested a small green gemstone, understated and nowhere near something Dio would have noticed normally; it somehow struck him as perfect for her. The locket, he had decide, was simple enough to not be misconstrued as a grand token of affection while also capable of being regarded as a good gift.

He brought out his phone and opened his messages.

Call Diego, he typed. Distract him for fifteen minutes.

Her response was simple and innocuous and yet still it irked him beyond compare: why?

Just do it. I’ll pay you to.

Consider it done, boss.

Beside him, Diego gave a start, cocking an eyebrow once he had read the Caller ID and excusing himself quickly from the store. Once he was out of earshot and line of sight, Dio turned to the clerk.

“That,” he said, pointing to the locket. “Is it real gold?”

“It is,” the clerk responded, a rehearsed smile plastered on their lips. “It’s eighteen karat gold with a—”

“—Here.” He held a credit card aloft between his middle and index finger, pointing it toward the clerk. “Make it quick.”

“Oh—well, we also have—”

“—Just,” Dio interjected more forcefully. “The locket. In its box, no wrappings or gift bags. As fast as humanly possible.”

Cowed and more than a little put off, the clerk rang him up and packed up the locket, following Dio’s instructions to the latter. Once the box had been handed to him, he quickly slipped it into his jacket pocket and scanned the crowd for Diego, took his credit card, and waited for him to return.

Five minutes later, Diego had walked back into the store with a bewildered expression, and Dio had received a Venmo request for ten dollars from the assistant he was loath to admit he had fallen deeply in love with.

Diego

He had found the perfect gift for himself: watching Dio flailing about a shopping mall as if he was drowning. The look of horror on Dio’s face at his predicament itself was a reward; getting to see him absolutely seethe while Diego poked and prodded at him about Christmas gifts was a bonus. In truth, he had already covered most of his to-do list of gifts for the holiday season. Almost all of the gifts were for himself, but he had bought small gifts for H.P, his old foster father back in England—never in his life had Diego been more grateful for Amazon Prime than he had been when he was shopping for that man—and his agent, the latter out of courtesy more than sentiment. Dio he had skipped entirely, and he was well aware that he had skipped over Diego in turn. But she had proved frustrating to shop for, and so he had settled on a comfortable, solid black sweater. Rarely had he seen her without one, and he figured it would have been the safest bet.

Thoroughly enjoying the sight of Dio floundering, he had led him into a jewelry store, intent on buying nothing and suggesting the most expensive items in the displays as gifts until the man exploded. Then his phone had rang, and—cursing under his breath—he had left the store, answering his phone and standing off to the side of the crowd.

“What?”

“Dio told me to distract you for ten minutes,” she replied without preamble. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, you know, he’s suffering.” Richly petty, he had said it with relish, laying the emphasis on thick.

“How many stores did you drag him to?” Wonder dwelled in her voice, partially cut with morbid curiosity.

“So far? A clothing store where I made him wait an hour while I tried on clothes I had no intention of purchasing. A book store. A lingerie store, where I repeatedly asked him for advice on what to buy for a woman until he stalked out. Then there was Hot Topic—that one was actually quite funny, the clerk recognized him from TikTok and kept flirting with him, I thought he was faking a seizure to get out of the conversation with how often he rolled his eyes—then we went to Lush, where I made him smell every bath bomb at least twice and pretended I needed a second opinion. Then Boxlunch, where at least four people tried to ask him out and I think he nearly cried. Now we’re at a jewelry store.”

“Has he bought anything?”

“A Bible, can you believe it? Why does that man need a Bible? Other than that—hang on,” Diego quieted, catching from a distance the subtle look Dio had given around the store before pointing to something. “He’s buying something in the jewelry store.”

“That’s probably why he made me call you, to get you out of the store. What’s he buying?”

“I have no idea, I can’t see.”

“Find out, I’m curious. Maybe he got you like, a watch?”

“You know,” Diego said slowly, eyeing the box in Dio’s hand as he slipped it into his pocket and knowing it was not a watch. “Maybe. I’ll let you know if I find out.”

“Take him to Spencer’s next.”

“What’s a Spencer’s?”

“Like a novelty store that sells band shirts. But they have a whole back wall that’s just dildos and penis pumps and vibrators and handcuffs. Find stuff near the back that’ll put him in proximity to it, he might have a full scale meltdown being seen near that in public with you.”

The idea itself nearly sent Diego into a meltdown himself, preferring death over covertly ushering Dio toward sex toys. But the prospect of him being horrified was far more enticing.

“You’re brilliant, thanks.”

Diego hung up, biting back the mischievous grin that threatened to split his mouth wide open, and strolled back into the shop.

Gyro

They had six hours.

Joseph and Caesar oversaw the finishing touches that needed to be completed like generals over an army, barking out orders that would have held more force behind them had they not been wearing matching Santa hats. The idea had been entirely Joseph’s, one Caesar had agreed to after much resistance; now, Caesar stood defeated under its faux mink trim, and Joseph just looked like an inordinately buff Santa Claus. It had taken everything in Johnny’s power not to laugh or roll his eyes, and Gyro had succumbed almost instantly to near-hysteria, pointing and laughing until he doubled over.

Jotaro, Josuke and Shizuka had been relegated to last minute decorations. At one point a string of lights that had been nothing short of a pain in the ass to put up had fallen completely off and the three had erupted into a flurry of angry Japanese, giving up on it entirely in favor of Josuke and Shizuka quietly stowing it away behind an inflatable Santa in the yard while Jotaro looked on, pulling his hat over his face.

Gyro, Holly and Johnny had been forced into helping Joseph and Caesar inside. Joseph and Caesar busied themselves by making last minute furniture adjustments and cleaning, Gyro had found himself in the kitchen with Holly, and Johnny had decided all of this was far too stupid to be a part of and settled for scrolling through Twitter.

“Gyro,” Johnny snarked. “You ever seen Dio’s Twitter? You got competition.”

“I make a point to pretend he doesn’t exist, Johnny, so no.”

Then Gyro looked up, pausing while bringing the knife down on a pile of smashed garlic cloves.

“What do you mean, ‘competition’?”

“Aren’t you madly in love with his assistant-slash-maybe-ex-girlfriend?”

“I like her,” Gyro insisted; they had been over this far too many times since he had told Johnny everything. “And they never dated. What kind of competition are we talking?”

“Well, from what I can see on Twitter, the dude’s built like a god and hung like a horse. You’re so skinny, if you stood sideways and stuck out your tongue you’d look like a zipper.”

He waved the screen toward Gyro, showing off a photo of Dio draped in shadow that left both plenty and nothing to the imagination. Disgust pulled Gyro’s lips into a deep frown, and he used the knife to point at Holly, humming away over a simmering pot on the stove.

“Johnny, your sister is right there.”

Then he paused, shaking his head.

“Tell Bucciarati that joke if he comes this year, he’ll appreciate it.”

“Holly,” Johnny craned his neck to look at his sister, ignoring but fully intending to tell Bruno he had called Gyro a walking zipper later. “You listening to us?”

“Hm?” Tilting her head toward them for a brief moment, she looked inquisitive before returning her attention to the stove. “I didn’t hear anything!”

“She’s in the zone. We don’t exist to her. Anyway,” Johnny set the phone down and steepled his fingers, leaning forward in his wheelchair. “You gotta compensate. Objectively, that man makes you look like a twig.”

“You know you’re talking about your great-grandfather from the neck down, right?”

Johnny pretended not to hear him. “She coming tonight?”

“Yes,” Gyro answered, strangely grim. “Along with Dio and Diego. Joseph insisted, everyone else is convinced it’s a terrible idea.”

“Wait, Diego’s coming? Gyro, grab some rocks from the backyard, we can put them in some wrapping paper.”

“I’m a little busy, Johnny. But,” Gyro grinned. “I can get someone else to.”

He stepped out of the kitchen and walked to the back patio, cupping his hands around his mouth to yell to Shizuka across the yard. “Shizuka! Do me a favor, grab as many smooth and flat rocks as you can find. We’re giving them to somebody as a gift.”

Bewildered, Shizuka stopped wrestling with the string of lights in her hands. “Why? Do you hate this person? Usually you give them coal if you hate them.”

“Inside joke,” Gyro replied. “I’ll give you five bucks.”

Shizuka grinned. “Deal!”

Gyro hurried back to the kitchen, picking up the knife and hacking away at the mound of garlic.

“Anyway,” he said to Johnny. “I don’t need to compensate. I’m a romantic at heart, and Dio doesn’t have one. I already win.”

“Okay, what did you get her? You know Dio had to have gotten her something if he’s trying to win her over.”

Gyro balked, once again pausing with the knife. “That…slipped my mind.”

Holly, who had in fact been listening to the entire conversation, smiled.

She set down the wooden spoon she had been stirring with, slipping the collar of the apron she had borrowed from Caesar over her head and untying it at the waist. Darting back into the guest room Joseph had set up for her, she came back holding a small music box with a gold clasp holding it shut. Antique and made of polished cherry wood that shone brilliant red under the light, it was decorated with leaves hanging from vines that snaked across the lid that matched the clasp in color, painstakingly painted by hand.

“Tell her it’s a family heirloom.”

“Wait, are you serious?” Gyro stared at her open mouthed, setting down the knife and washing his hands. He opened the lid after drying off with the one dish towel that was still dry, the inside upholstered in rich emerald velvet and smelling faintly of perfume. Twisting the tapered silver crank at the bottom, Clair de lune played softly over the commotion surrounding them, faintly tinny from age. 

“Yep! I bought it years ago and was planning on giving it away, it’s fine! It’s the perfect gift for a romantic that forgot to buy a Christmas present for the girl he’s in love with.”

“I’m not in love with her,” Gyro blushed, taking the box from Holly.

“Yeah, you are,” Johnny called from across the counter, immersed back into his Twitter feed. 

Setting down the box, Gyro quietly wheeled Johnny onto the patio and shut the doors, a deep flush scored across his cheekbones when he walked back inside.

The Party

To your immeasurable relief, no one had died or tried to kill someone yet.

Dio had found himself immersed in a quiet yet heated exchange with Jotaro, each glowering at one another from opposite couches. You had caught part of the conversation walking toward the patio, looking for Diego.

“…So that would mean,” Dio had said smoothly, smirking at Jotaro. “All of your career endeavors were gained through nepotism, since you are benefiting from your Joestar lineage. Wouldn’t you agree, Jotaro?”

“Good grief,” Jotaro muttered in reply. “If it wasn’t Christmas I would kick your ass.”

Glaring sharply at Dio, he fell into silence, offering you the most insincere smile you had ever seen in your life before you had stepped out of the room, seeing Diego near the bar.

“What does your Stand do?”

He had asked Avdol; Polnareff answered.

“Fire chicken,” he said in a sage voice with a slow nod while Avdol remained stonefaced.

“What does that even mean?”

“Fire. Chicken.” Polnareff repeated.

Beside Polnareff was Shizuka, grinning broadly as she tapped Diego on the shoulder.

“Wanna see my party trick?”

“Erm,” Diego stood nonplussed as he looked over to her, giving a slow and apprehensive nod. “Sure, why not?”

With no warning, Shizuka had vanished where she stood, and a strand of Diego’s hair moved slowly upward on its own. Jumping half a foot in the air, there was genuine fright on his face and he looked around, alarmed. Shizuka popped back into existence where she stood, giggling as Diego struggled to make sense of what had just happened.

“Achtung Baby,” she grinned, crossing her arms. “I can go invisible.”

Yeah, I’m just gonna leave him there.

Keeping a reserved distance from Gyro lest Dio fly off the handle at the sight, you found yourself in a four way conversation between Josuke, Kakyoin, and Jotaro—if anything, it had been a three way conversation, with how little Jotaro contributed—the two asking perfunctory questions about training and Hamon with the occasional anecdote about their own experiences with it.

“So,” you asked brightly. “When did you guys start training?”

The three shared a long look.

Kakyoin spoke first, a bemused expression on his face. “Have you ever heard of the Morioh Hand Murders?”

“No,” you answered; your knowledge in true crime outside the United States was decidedly lacking. “What were the Morioh Hand Murders?”

Within the span of an hour, you had found out everything about Morioh, Reimi Sugimoto and her haunted alley, Josuke’s deep hatred of Rohan Kishibe, and Kira Yoshikage, and you wished you had never asked.

As the night stretched on, Joseph and Caesar had shepherded in everyone from the patio and to the living room, passing out gifts left and right; nearby, Johnny and Bucciarati were laughing at a joke about Gyro looking like a zipper that you were not sure warranted the laughs it had gotten, a tear in Bruno’s eye. Soon, the floor had become littered in wrapping paper, boxes and trampled bows, a tiny stack of gift cards piled up next to you from Joseph and Caesar. Then, a rectangular box wrapped neatly in blue paper with a yellow bow was shoved into your hands, Diego’s handwriting scrawled at the top. 

It was a simple black sweater with a note tucked into the box: try to keep this on if you wear it around them or I’m returning it.

“Thanks, Diego,” you shot back with little venom, smiling as you unfurled the sweater from the box. Another, smaller one had been handed to him in turn, the blue toque you had bought him tucked neatly inside. Though you had seen him moments before presents were being distributed Dio, remarkably, had vanished seemingly into thin air; you had blinked and he was gone.

He made an appearance, he probably just went home. He didn’t want to come anyway.

Gyro had seemed to notice his absence too, catching your attention and motioning for you to follow him. Slipping out from your space toward the back between Avdol and a very animated kid around Johnny’s age named Narancia, Gyro quietly led you to his room.

“You know like, everyone you have ever met is out there right? And Diego? And Dio, although I have no idea where he is?”

“Has that stopped us before?” He winked at you, reaching past your shoulder and pulling a small box off his dresser. “Unfortunately, bambina, that’s not why I brought you in here. I didn’t wrap it because it was too beautiful—”

“—Because you didn’t know how—”

“—You’re right,” he laughed. “I didn’t. But it’s an old family heirloom. Merry Christmas.”

He handed you the box, and you let out a small gasp as you traced your fingers over the motif on the lid before opening it, Clair de lune playing in the silence.

“Wait,” you whispered, dumbfounded. “I can’t have this, this is like, an actual gift.”

Raising an eyebrow, he shook his head with a small smile. “It’s fine, bambina. Plus, what am I going to do with a music box?” 

It was a touching gift, one that had left you bowled over as you closed it. “It’s really nice. Thank you. Now I feel like shit for not getting you anything—I kind of only got gifts for Joseph, Caesar and Diego.”

“Smart,” he said approvingly. 

“If you really want to give me something, you can enthusiastically and rigorously thank me for that—” he pointed to the box “—next time I see you.”

Stealing a quick peck on your cheek, he draped an arm over your shoulder and gently led you back to the living room in time to see Joseph frowning at a gift that appeared to be heavy and riddled with lumps before having it passed to Diego. When it had reached his lap, he immediately looked over to Johnny and then Gyro.

“Really? On Christmas?”

“Open it,” Gyro goaded, Johnny stifling a laugh. 

Warily, he tore back the wrapping paper, revealing a sack of rocks and sending Gyro and Johnny into near-tears as they laughed.

At midnight, guests had slowly begun trickling out; this, you and Diego agreed, was your cue to leave. Heading to the car, Diego scowling with his bag of rocks and his toque on his head, he looked around while you unlocked it, confused.

“Where’s Dio?”

“He left early, I think,” you answered, setting down the gift cards, sweater and music box patting your pockets down to discern which one held your phone. “I’ll text him and check.”

Locating the blocky shape in your right coat pocket, you reached for it and your hand brushed against the unfamiliar feeling of a gold chain. Curiosity raising your eyebrows upward while you closed your hand around it, you slowly brought the chain out to find a gold locket that you had never seen before. It was small, a tiny floral pattern along the border, with an equally small emerald in the middle.

“That’s weird,” you muttered, examining it closely. “I’ve never seen this before.”

Something in Diego’s expression shifted; he looked almost proud, if not a little off-put.

“You sure?”

“I have literally never seen this locket in my life, Diego.”

Turning the locket over in your hands, you wracked your brain trying to figure out where it had come from. It was beautiful, new and visibly more pricey than within your budget. The more you inspected the locket the more you had become convinced you had ended up with someone else’s jewelry by accident and you set back inside, locket in hand. But no one you had asked owned it, nor had seen it before, and you walked back outside with more questions than answers.

Diego was on his phone texting when you had caught back up to the car, barely affording you a passing glance.

“Dio’s at home. Said he left early ‘lest he drain the entire Joestar clan’.”

“I’m amazed he even came.”

Climbing into the driver’s seat, you sighed.

“This locket is going to confuse the shit out of me for weeks.”

“Well,” Diego motioned to the locket. “If it’s no one else’s, that means its yours.”

“Guess so,” you murmured, stupefied as you clasped its chain around your neck; it fell soft against your chest, coming to rest right above your heart.

Chapter Text

Years ago, when he had barely reached his teens, his maternal grandmother had told him the story of his birth while they sat at the beach and watched his younger brothers build a sandcastle he knew would be washed away by the tide. He was born on a balmy summer day—July 16th, in the afternoon—and Gyro was sure that the only time his father had ever held him in his arms. The eldest child of Gregorio Zeppeli, he was a particularly arduous labor, one his father personally had overseen to ensure it went without a hitch. When he had finally came into this world kicking and screaming and the nurse had handed Gregorio his son, swaddled in a stock hospital blanket and quieting down as he adjusted to the startling enormity of being alive, he had merely given the baby a cursory nod before barking out a name that his son would grow to loathe: Iulius Caesar Zeppeli. 

For as long as he could remember, calling Gregorio authoritative was generous at best. To say Gregorio Zeppeli was a tyrant that ruled over the family with an iron fist was far less generous, yet still somehow not quite good enough. A stickler to the core and a staunch adherent to the laws of his country and his world, he was simply Gregorio—always Father, never “dad” or “papa”—the kind of father that on a good day shut himself off from the inner workings of the lives of his children and on a bad day was in sharp reproach of every effort to let him in; the kind that you could not find a birthday card for in any aisle of any store, and would quietly toss the one you had colored for him on stiff construction paper into the trash when he was sure you weren’t looking. Gyro had found that out the hard way when he was five, and he had never bothered to make another—sentiment was never to be outwardly shown. 

Like him, Gregorio had been the firstborn son, and had become one of the most renowned surgeons in all of Europe by twenty-five. He was precise and methodical in his practice, and some even had went so far as to call him a miracle worker with how easily his patients seemed to heal. His grandfather, Mario Zeppeli II, was the same; the firstborn son, a peerless physician in his own right, seemingly blessed by the sun.

But medicine was not always the Zeppeli calling. Coming from a long line of upper class executioners dating back to when Italy had been a kingdom and not a republic, it had shifted into education and archaeology in the mid-19th century. That change had started and ended with a man named Anthonio Zeppeli, after an excavation in Mexico led to discovery of the Stone Masks and the deaths of all fifty-eight passengers except his son, Will Anthonio Zeppeli.

Then he had joined Jonathan Joestar’s crusade against Dio and the Stone Masks, turning the tide of the Zeppeli lineage forever; dying brutally at the age of fifty, he had left his eldest son Mario to take up the mantle. Years later, the Masks would claim another Zeppeli life—Mario was killed by the Pillar Men in front of his own son, and Caesar in turn helped defeat them and avenge his father, joining up with the Speedwagon Foundation to eradicate the Stone Masks. It was in the aftermath that Caesar had turned to medicine, working as a physician under the Speedwagon Foundation and turning to holistic healing in his later years, teaching yoga to wealthy soccer moms and performing acupuncture in a swanky private practice in Rolling Hills.

All of this, Gregorio had told Gyro when he had turned twelve. He sat him down in a stiff-backed wicker chair on the loggia of their quiet villa on a hill overlooking the Gulf of Naples, stroking his goatee as he spoke. He had raised Gyro on the core tenant belief that being born a Zeppeli was nothing short of sacrosanct; that night, Gyro became brutally aware that he had inherited by birthright an obligation to greatness.

And so, though he had preferred things like fast cars and pretty women, Gyro had devoted his teens to studying diligently to get into the best medical school in Italy and follow in his father’s footsteps. He had sworn off dating once he had gotten accepted because he was sure it would be a distraction that would only bring bad luck, though his bed was rarely—if ever—empty. He had even snuck some of them into the same hospital he had worked in under his father, using various tricks at his disposal to disguise them as patients to make sure he was never caught. He subtly brought up his grades at dinner to see the tiny gleam of approval in his father’s stare, and reacted with no small amount of surprise when he had taken Gyro under his wing and taught him everything he knew.

Under his tutelage, Gyro excelled. But he had also discovered an inalienable, unflinching truth: while he had inherited his father’s cold, calculating demeanor, his passion for justice and his shrewdness—qualities that had served him well in medical school and in life—he had also inherited his mother’s eccentric defiance and free spirit, and the two sides to him that had remained forever at war would be forever personified in their bond. He thought Gregorio was stuffy and oppressive and far too severe in his punishments when Gyro would push back against him, but there was still admiration and respect there. That admiration was not without its drawbacks, however—it had came with this unyielding need to make Gregorio see him, appreciate him, tell him just once that he was proud.

To put it simply, although Gyro quietly fucked with him at every opportunity, he knew better than to ever let him down.

So it was nothing short of a surprise when Gregorio had called him into the study seemingly out of the blue one warm evening in the middle of June just two years before, all the windows open and bringing in the salty sea air, his expression taciturn. Staring his son straight in the eye, he did not mince words—Gregorio never did.

“Do you remember my great-grandfather, Caesar?”

He did, and he remembered him fondly. The name carried with it memories of gelato and strolls through cobblestone streets, kind blue eyes and pale blonde hair that reminded him of feathers, and the feeling of sunlight never being too far away. Though his family firmly existed within the exceptional, Caesar had always baffled him—he looked far too young to have been born in 1918, he was in far too good of shape, and despite his kind nature he always held the horrors of his lineage deep in the blue of his eyes.

Often, he would bring around an excitable man from the States with bright green eyes and a personality that made him feel like he was a mischievous little kid trapped in the body of Mr. Universe. Gyro had liked the man immensely, seeing in him a sort of kindred spirit; they both liked cars, girls, and greatly annoying Caesar, and he would always bring out a set of clackers that sparked whenever they smacked together that had never ceased to amaze him when he was young. The last time, he had brought a newborn baby, and Gyro and his brothers had unanimously decided to treat him like he was a cousin. But when he was eleven the visits had stopped without warning, and by twenty-six he had almost forgotten Caesar and the man entirely.

“Yes,” Gyro answered, bewilderment seeping clear into his voice. “Why?”

Gregorio paused; rarely did he look for the right words to say, but it seemed that he did now. Turning a glass of wine in his hands as if its swirling contents would tell him the future, he gave a long sigh.

“You’ll be moving in with him at the end of the month. He lives in the United States now, in California.”

The suggestion alone would have stymied Gyro, and the command ended up flooring him. America? After everything he had worked for? All those hours toiling away and surrounded by stacks upon stacks of textbooks, all of the days and weeks and months he had spent memorizing all the organs in the human body and the exact way to hold a scalpel so that his hand never wavered, was that all supposed to just fly out the window? Was this about the horse racing? That was just a hobby, he could give it up. As much as it would have killed him to do it, he would have given it up. He had worked too hard, he was not willing to sacrifice that to live with a man he had not seen in fifteen years.

Gyro did not move, did not at all allow himself to show any sort of emotion despite finding himself under a barrage of plenty of them. “Why?”

“Caesar will tell you,” Gregorio answered, eyes just like Gyro’s own hard as steel. “He will be picking you up from Los Angeles International Airport at the end of the month. The flight has already been arranged.”

In that moment, Gyro had chosen to take a path he had never dared go down: he had chose to openly defy Gregorio.

“Father,” Gyro spoke carefully, doing his best to articulate his defiance without incurring his father’s cold wrath. “I’m not moving to Los Angeles. I’m the youngest surgeon in Napoli and the most highly sought out, and I worked hard to get there. I have a life here, I have—” 

“—Iulius,” Gregorio cut him off, his tone commanding and imposing, and Gyro flinched at the name. “This goes beyond you. You do not have a say in the matter. As the eldest son, this is your duty. Pack your bags. You have two weeks to say your goodbyes.”

There was no arguing with Gregorio. There never was.

“Yes, Father,” Gyro agreed with no small amount of resentment. “Is that all?”

“It is,” Gregorio replied. 

Gyro turned to leave the study, biting back the scathing diatribe at the tip of his tongue, and Gregorio softly spoke his name.

“You have always carried the burden of the Zeppeli lineage on your shoulders, and you will feel its weight when you step off that plane. Do not disappoint me, Iulius.”

The Zeppeli lineage.

That sacrosanct curse made up of executioner’s robes and horror-brimmed eyes, of hands stained with the blood of criminals and the blood of those they could not save from the operating table. He had not asked for this, why should he be punished for it when he had done nothing wrong? He had felt its burden enough in medical school, and he was already tired of shouldering it.

Gyro nodded, leaving the study before he said something he would regret.

True to Gregorio’s word, Caesar met him at the terminal, an impressively svelte man with greying brown hair and a full beard at his side. Seeing him in person after so long was nothing short of jarring; he looked like he had barely entered his sixties, despite being one-hundred-and-two.

“Gyro,” he called warmly, extending his arms out. “Look at how you’ve grown! I remember when you barely came up to my knee, now I can look you in the eye.”

Gyro let him envelop him into a fond hug, doing his best not to seem awkward. “Hi, Caesar.”

“This,” he motioned to the man, waving enthusiastically with a gloved hand. “Is Joseph Joestar. Do you remember him?”

“I do,” Gyro replied honestly as Caesar let him go. “You had the thing with the balls on the string, you could make them shoot sparks.”

“Clacker Volley,” Joseph was enthusiastic as he nodded, and Caesar groaned.

“You had a baby, too, last time I saw you. I remember him.”

“My boy, Johnny,” he beamed, pulling out his phone to show Gyro a picture.

It was a face he recognized instantly, and one that surprised him greatly to see. Scowling up at the camera from a wheelchair, blonde hair in his face and sticking out in all directions from his star-spangled knit cap, was Johnny Joestar. A racing prodigy from birth, he had grown up on a farm in Danville, Kentucky, and Gyro had raced with him in Italy on several occasions—one of which had nearly led to him and Johnny being trampled by their horses thanks to an underhanded kick from that slimy little shit Diego Brando. After the race, Johnny had waited for Diego and soundly kicked the shit out of him for it, earning Gyro’s respect then and there.

He had been taken aback by the wheelchair until he remembered seeing it on Twitter around Christmas. Johnny had been sitting in math class when a kid that had found him to be too conceited for his own good after he had cut in front of him in the lunch line and in part blamed him for being ostracized by his peers pulled a gun out of his backpack, pointed it at Johnny’s back, and crossed off the first name on his list of kids that had neither known him nor done anything wrong yet he had sworn to exact his fury upon. It had chilled Gyro to the core when he had read it, and though Johnny had been fortunate enough to have survived the bullet had severed his sciatic nerve, leaving him a paraplegic and effectively ending his promising career as a jockey.

Somehow, he had never in his mind connected that Johnny Joestar would be related to the giant man from his childhood, and the revelation bowled him over.

“I know Johnny,” he said slowly, poring over the photo. “We raced together when he would compete in Italy.”

He did not mention the wheelchair, nor the shooting, and the look in Joseph’s eye was of unparalleled gratitude.

Joseph laughed, a thunderous and genial guffaw that seemed to shake the terminal; several people nearby had turned in shock at the sound. “Zeppelis and Joestars, always finding their way to each other even if they’re an entire continent apart.”

Slowly, Gyro turned to Caesar. “I guess that’s a good way to lean into my question. Why am I here?”

Caesar fell silent, giving Joseph a long look filled with apprehension, and the mirth left Joseph’s face.

“Why don’t we talk about this over lunch?” Caesar gave him an almost apologetic smile, one that seemed to say ‘I wish it didn’t have to be like this’ and immediately set Gyro on edge. “Come on. I know a place that will make you think of home.”

The last place Gyro wanted to think about was home; nevertheless, he nodded, shouldered his bag, and followed Joseph and Caesar to the car.

Caesar and Joseph ended up taking him to a place called UOVO in Santa Monica, Caesar excitedly telling him on the way that they had a kitchen in Bologna staffed entirely by sfogline that made pasta through traditional methods, using eggs that were only available in Italy, and overnighted the finished pasta to their locations stateside.

“It is the closest thing,” Caesar said from the driver’s seat, looking at Gyro from the rearview mirror. “To actual Italian food I’ve found in the States.”

Gyro glanced up at the giant yellow arrow shaped like a boomerang pointing to the In-N-Out drive thru as it sped past his window, smiling at Caesar and wondering if it would be rude to say he would have preferred to try a Double Double instead. 

Once they were seated and given waters and menus, Caesar grew solemn.

“Gyro,” he started, setting down the menu. “Did Gregorio ever tell you about someone named Dio?”

“He did,” Gyro answered as he wavered between the vongole and the arrabbiata. “Once. When I was twelve. He said that one of my distant relatives died fighting him over something called a Stone Mask.”

Caesar’s tone grew more delicate. “Did he ever tell you what that meant?”

Gyro looked up from the menu to find Caesar watching him intently, a deep sense of foreboding filling him at the sight of his face.

“No,” Gyro said slowly. “But I have a feeling that you’re about to.”

Caesar and Joseph told him everything then, ordering for him—the arrabbiata, which he had barely touched when it had came to him, too shocked to eat—when he could not find the words to speak to the server. Sitting in that restaurant across from two men he had not seen since childhood, he learned all about Dio’s voluntary transformation into a vampire, about Will Zeppeli, Dire, Straizo, Tonpetty and Hamon, Jonathan Joestar and the sacrilege inflicted upon his body at death, how one of Dio’s minions had killed Joseph’s own father, training to learn Hamon from the last living master at the time—Joseph’s own mother, a revelation made to him after his own funeral when he had been presumed dead in the fight against the leader of the Pillar Men, Kars—and how they had to stop an expedition back in the eighties championed by a group based in Cairo to search for the ship’s wreckage where Dio had been entombed to ensure his remains stayed in their watery grave. 

“Which brings us,” Caesar said delicately, “to why you’re here. You’re here to learn Hamon from Joseph and I. Gregorio had opposed it for years, but as the eldest son it’s your birthright. Every firstborn Zeppeli since my grandfather learned Hamon has trained in it.”

“Why?”

They exchanged another long glance, and Joseph took over.

“We know,” he began, his expression severe and terrifying on a man whose default emotion was joviality. “That Dio’s sitting at the bottom of the Atlantic. We don’t know where exactly he is, since it’s been over a hundred years, but we know. And we have a feeling that he’s not dead.”

He turned his torso in his seat, pulling down the collar of his shirt to reveal a star shaped birthmark.

“Everyone in the Joestar family has this birthmark. Since Dio has Jonathan’s body, he has a tie to every living Joestar now. It’s bizarre, but since I have the closest blood relation to Jonathan Joestar, I can feel him.”

Gyro stared at them over the nearly untouched plate of arrabbiata, mouth hanging open.

He could only stutter out one thing. “Like Harry Potter and Voldemort?” 

“We need you, Gyro,” Caesar spoke softly, his face bleak. “Johnny’s already training. So is Joseph’s son Josuke, his daughter Shizuka, and his grandson Jotaro. We need everyone that we can get. When Dio comes back, and we think that will be soon, we’re going to need all the manpower we have to stop him.”

“What makes you think it’ll be soon?”

“We have it on good authority that he has a living descendant in England, and we can’t discount the notion that he might try to bring back Dio himself.”

“Who’s his descendant?”

“You actually know him already. It’s Diego Brando,” Caesar answered, and Gyro scowled.

“That piece of shit? I’m in.”

Gyro began training that day. He was denied the cultural zeitgeist of watching Tiger King and baking bread once quarantine had began eight months later; his shelter-in-place had been spent between Air Supplena Island and Palos Verdes, climbing death pillars slick with oil while wearing a mask that nearly strangled him and being forced underwater until he thought he was going to die. He trained with Caesar and Joseph and every new student the two had brought in, and he trained alone. He liked it best when he would train with Johnny, quickly becoming friends with the boy and adopting an elder brother-like role. In no time, just as he had with medical school, he became an accomplished Hamon user—his father’s nature once again benefiting him, and his heritage securing his greatness. All the while, he would find himself wondering in the quiet hours just why Gregorio had put off sending him to Caesar to train, if he had fundamentally misunderstood the severe man and his cold parenting; if he had not wanted to send Gyro off because he was afraid to lose him.

Then, on his birthday the following year, he had heralded in twenty-eight with a TMZ headline he could still vividly picture: GHOST SHIP SAILS INTO TENERIFE WITH WEIRD EMPTY OLD COFFIN…?

He knew, unequivocally, Dio had returned.

Not long after that, Holly spontaneously manifested her Stand. Joseph, Josuke, Jotaro and Johnny had already obtained theirs by that point—Joseph’s had developed on its own in 2009, a byproduct of lifelong Hamon use. Jotaro’s came organically not long afterward, Josuke had been pricked by a Stand Arrow in Morioh in 2012, and Johnny had been given a Stand by his father. Joseph’s had been named Hermit Purple by a solemn man from Egypt called Avdol, and it had granted him the ability to discern the whereabouts of people through things like spirit photography and manipulating televisions. From Tenerife he had tracked Dio to Cairo, his location confirmed when Avdol had called and said a woman had been found dead in an abandoned mansion in one of the older quarters of the city. One day in early November, he had barged in after Gyro and Caesar had finished eating dinner while brandishing a photo from a Polaroid he had bought secondhand, showing an impossibly built blonde man lounging in the dark.

“He’s in Los Angeles,” Joseph was brusque, slamming down the photo on the dining table. “He left Cairo.”

“He’s here?” Caesar had done a double take, setting down the dish he had been washing and drying off his hands. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Joseph pointed at the photo before pulling out another from his coat pocket. It showed a colossal mansion built in the modern style, a flat sprawling estate with far too many windows for a vampire to be living in. “This is the where he is. I know this place, I remember when it went on the market. It’s in Bel Air.”

Gyro studied the photos, scrutinizing each with his mouth in a hard line.

“So why don’t we go kill him?”

Caesar and Joseph looked at each other, silently engaging in an entire conversation Gyro could not understand.

“Well, we don’t know what he’s capable of,” Joseph admitted. “We don’t know what his Stand can do. Going in blind will serve us no good. That’s just asking to be killed. We need to figure that out, first.”

Gyro understood their hesitation, but he did not entirely get it.

“There’s something else,” Caesar said quietly. “We figured out how Dio may have gotten his Stand. One of Joseph’s associates in Italy has been tracking these artifacts called Stand Arrows for some time now on behalf of the Speedwagon Foundation, and we believe he may have came into contact with one. We aren’t sure, but it’s a possibility.”

That night, Gyro saw a Stand Arrow for the first time, and he got a Stand of his own: Ball Breaker.

Not long after that, Diego had arrived in Los Angeles, and Gyro and Johnny found themselves sitting across from Joseph, Caesar, Josuke and Jotaro. Diego had brought his horse in from England, boarding it at the Portuguese Bend Riding Club—the same place Gyro had boarded Valkyrie a month after he had moved in—a mere fifteen minutes from Caesar’s house, and inspiration had struck the two men.

“We need you two,” Joseph said wearily; it was clear he had exhausted every other option. “To track Diego. We think he has a Stand of his own and may be working with Dio. He has an assistant, too, and we’re not entirely sure how she fits into all of this. So you’ll be tracking her as well.”

“Jiji,” Jotaro was reproachful, his normally stoic demeanor briefly giving way to something close to appalled opposition. “That’s a terrible idea. Dio could find out and kill them both.”

Gyro and Johnny exchanged uneasy glances, and Josuke had remained in terse silence.

“We’re kicking the hornet’s nest, I know. But with Holly, we can’t afford to not take risks.”

“What’s wrong with Holly?” Johnny was quiet, his genuine concern evident. He may not have liked most people, but he did love his eldest sister. 

“She’s developed a Stand,” Joseph answered in a tight voice, and Jotaro and Josuke stiffened. “And it’s killing her. We don’t have much time now. We have to find Dio, we have to figure out his Stand’s ability and his weaknesses, and we have to kill him. I don’t think there’s any other way to save her.”

Johnny looked stricken, Josuke trained his stare on the coffee table, and Jotaro sighed bitterly.

“I still don’t think this is a good idea. We can save my mother without putting Gyro and Johnny in danger. You said it yourself, Jiji, you don’t know what he can do.”

“What other choice do we have?” Morose, Joseph seemed to be on the verge of breaking down. “I can’t lose my little girl.”

“And I can’t lose my mom,” Jotaro added. “But I don’t want to risk other people’s lives to save her.”

They had argued back and forth for what felt like hours before Johnny had interrupted, shaking his head. “If it’s for Holly, I’ll do it. What about you, Gyro?”

He was not about to send Johnny into a viper’s nest alone.

“I’ll do it,” he said quietly. “We can stake them out.”

Later, trapped in a cramped basement in a tacky little cabin in Lake Arrowhead, he would kick himself for agreeing to that. They had fallen into the very same trap Jotaro had feared would be set for them, and Gyro was sure he had met his end. The only time that uncertainty had wavered was when Dio’s assistant—Gyro had thought she was pretty if not a terrible judge of character—had charged out the front door bellowing about an agreement; that uncertainty had dissipated entirely when she and Diego had crept down the stairs together and loosened their bonds long enough for them to contact Joseph and Caesar with their whereabouts.

It was then Gyro had been blessed with what he had been sure was a stroke of genius. In his own right, Gyro had always been a bit of a ladies man, able to charm almost any person that had identified as a woman with a pulse that was attracted to men in his bed. He had guessed well enough that something had happened between her and Dio when Johnny had pointed out the scars on her neck, and knew that whatever had happened had soured between them when she had admitted she hated the bastard. The night alone had made him like her, but what better way to keep an eye on Dio without bringing his wrath down on anyone else than to seduce his assistant? Soon enough she would trust him, and he could gently pry for information from her while whispering sweet nothings in her ear. Then he could tell Caesar and Joseph, and they could get rid of Dio once and for all. And he could go back to Napoli, back to his life and everything he had worked for, and forget any of this had ever happened.

That very night, Gyro had turned on the charm thick, slipping into the effortless persona and heavily dosing his speech with affectionate Italian. He knew from experience that it worked well on American girls, and he knew she would be no exception. Once everyone had sat down to discuss a truce in the cabin he had messaged Diego and asked for her number, texting her throughout the meeting and flirting as covertly as possible. Confident, he watched as she bit back a smile and engaged in his banter, thinking to himself it had been far too easy.

He had not realized Joseph had concocted a plan of his own. While speaking with Dio, he had decided in the heat of the moment to recruit her into learning Hamon not solely out of gratefulness for rescuing them. In his mind, he had figured her display of defiance meant she could fight Dio from within his own little world, and that she could be coaxed into joining them. He had told Gyro and Johnny about it later that night once Josuke had healed Holly, and Caesar had hand-waved it as little more than a harebrained scheme.

“What if she’s on his side?” Caesar glared at Joseph; the suggestion alone had been an affront. “We don’t know her, Joseph. She could be a spy.”

“Nonno,” Gyro had said with a smile, the opportunity presenting him with a way to get even closer to her. “She hates his guts. I don’t think she’s there willingly. Joseph might be onto something here.”

“Plus,” Johnny added, watching Caesar carefully. “She did save us.”

While they discussed it, he had let her know Holly had been healed. A day later, she had responded by asking to come over when they had returned from the cabin. She had questions for Joseph and Caesar, she had said, and she had unwittingly played right into his hands. He waited long enough to reply to where it would not seem weird that he invited her to a New Year’s Eve party, and when he had noticed she was still shaken by the answers she had gotten, he had brought her into his room. The poor girl had practically melted in his arms, and he knew his plan had worked.

The silence after New Year’s had bruised his ego. That was all he had thought it was. He had told Johnny about it, leaving out the motives that had led him to bringing her into his bedroom, and Johnny had rightfully called him an idiot. She was too close to Dio, he had said, she was off limits. And he had shrugged it off, swiping through Tinder and distracting himself from that nagging question of why she had blown him off. Why did it irk him that she had blown him off, anyway? He was not here to make friends or find a girlfriend, he was here to kill the vampire that had haunted his family for a century. Sure, she was pretty, and sure, she had looked good naked, but that was it. 

Then he had seen her sitting in that booth at Norms, and he had felt his heart leap straight into the roof of his mouth.

“I wonder if she’s happy to see me,” Gyro whispered to Johnny.

Johnny’s reply was immediate and predictable. “Why the hell do you care?”

Why did he care, indeed.

The question had driven him crazy as he walked her back to her car. He cared, he had decided, because she had risked her neck to save him and Johnny without knowing them in the slightest. Because she looked pretty under the lights strung across Caesar’s patio, and reserved as she may have been her personality was pretty endearing. Because he liked the way she felt when he kissed her, he liked how she was the perfect height when he hugged her, and that he knew she was strong as hell but still very clearly vulnerable, and he liked how it made him want to tell her everything would be all right. That was all it was. That would not in any way jeopardize his plans, and he would not think of her once when he would board that plane back to Napoli thanks to her insight.

There was still no way this could backfire, he had thought when he put on his seatbelt. No way.

When she had shown up for her first day of training, Gyro was hit with the unfortunate realization that his plan may have worked a little too well, and it absolutely had, in fact, backfired. There were many ways it could have went south and Gyro had anticipated them all: she could have been in love with Dio, she simply would not have been attracted to him, it would have been a one time thing; he had anticipated those and created contingencies to deal with them accordingly.

What Gyro did not anticipate was that he would actually start to like her.

From the moment he had rounded the base of the cliff he could not take his eyes off her. Nor could he keep his hands off her, which had proven difficult under Joseph and Caesar’s watchful eyes. Fully anticipating her exhaustion after spending all day holding her breath, Gyro had went so far as to sneak into the shower with her while Joseph and Caesar were gone, eager to make sure she did not somehow hurt herself. Caesar had always said Joseph was less discerning than he should have been, but Joseph had picked up on it almost immediately, grilling him about his feelings when she was out of earshot. Under his questioning Gyro had folded like a card table, and Joseph fell into the role of matchmaker all too quickly. He had caught the man’s face in the window after she had kissed his cheek, and he had pulled Gyro aside and demanded to know when he was going to take her out—he had even pulled out his phone and scrolled through Yelp, pointing out different restaurants that would be great for a first date. 

Then she had texted him late that night, and by morning when Gyro had woken up and thought of her immediately, he knew he was a goner.

It had all brought him to now, to the day he had told her impulsively to come to his house knowing Caesar would be out on some work retreat in Topanga Canyon, the sound of his phone ringing startling him awake.

Seeing her name, a sleepy smile crept across his face and he answered the phone.

I’m in too deep.

Chapter Text

This is a bad idea.

The long, vertical slashes on your arm ached under the sleeve of your sweatshirt, chafing against the fabric as you turned the steering wheel; forgotten in the ensuing chaos with the massacre of your leg and its subsequent and instantaneous healing, the pain in your arm had returned with a vengeance, the wound partially open in the deeper parts of the cuts Wang Chan had left. All of the bandages spent, you wore it bare, and you had made a mental note to pick up more bandages and gauze at CVS on the way back.

This is such a bad idea.

The Portuguese Bend Riding Club and the back of Diego as he turned to walk in long since gone from your rear view mirror. Foggy ocean air crept in damp from the open window, filling the car with the smell of freshly trimmed lawns and the late morning tide. Wet and green, it settled on your face and you breathed in, hoping it would ground you and soothe some sense into the tumult that had been raging in your conscience for far too long.

Really, this might be the worst idea I’ve ever had.

Like a broken record the fights replayed in your mind—the fight with Wang Chan, the fight with Dio, the “deal” he had made. For two days you debated on what to do and no clear cut solution presented itself. Telling Gyro, or Joseph, or Caesar, or anyone would galvanize them into moving against Dio and probably cost them their lives, and would guarantee your own demise. Playing both sides to save your own skin would simply backfire, the possibilities on how it would seemingly endless. Dio would somehow know and kill everyone, the Joestars might find out and kill you, siding with Dio could bring about the apocalypse if he succeeded. For two days you had agonized over every outcome, withering under Dio’s glare and shrinking away from his agents. 

This is a bad idea, but Gyro is a doctor. He can look at it.

You turned onto Middleridge Lane.

It was just past nine in the morning, and part of you was not sure he had even been awake. You had not even told him you were coming, unsure of whether or not you would have yourself. Pulling up to the circular driveway, you parked next to Gyro’s Bronco, checking your reflection in the rearview mirror and smoothing out the front of your sweater.

It is Thursday, though. He did say to come by Thursday. Maybe he won’t get mad?

When you called him to tell him you were outside, your suspicions that he had been asleep were confirmed.

“Bambina?” Gyro’s voice came drowsy through the receiver. “G’morning.”

“I’m uh, I’m at your house.”

A long beat of silence hung over the dead air.

“Like, right now?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” Noticeably more alert, Gyro spoke more clearly. “Oh shit. Um, okay, give me five minutes.”

Very faintly you could hear a tumbling crash followed by the sound of plastic bottles and crumpling paper hastily being shoved into a bag, Gyro’s hissed “cazzo” under his breath not escaping you before the line disconnected, cutting off the diatribe in Italian he had begun to launch into. Amusement quirked the corner of your mouth upward while you imagined him frantically straightening up his room, bounding around like a madman to make himself and it presentable before a pang of guilt shot through it.

With no warning you had woken him up, sent him into an apparent panic, and you could not help but feel terrible for it—but only for a moment, the guilt leaving you when the front door slammed open and revealed a grinning Gyro. Wearing sweatpants and a white under shirt, his hair tousled by sleep and falling around him in disheveled waves, the look on his face made it clear that your intrusion was far from unwanted as he stepped off the porch. The sight of him sent a welcome surge that had felt delightedly foreign through you, a wide smile on your face as he drew nearer.

You got out of the car and he practically sprinted to meet you, engulfing you in a tight hug; it clued you into another injury sustained by the fight, throbbing from your ribs and making you wince while covertly sucking in air through your teeth. Hiding the pained look on your face in the hug, you returned the gesture, circling your arms around his waist.

“Hi,” you breathed, the air knocked out of you by both the hug and the ache in your right side.

“Hi,” he said back, and you looked up at him.

For a moment the two of you stood there, watching each other, a silent conversation happening in your gaze alone, the pain blaring through your arm and ribs forgotten in its meaning. Then his lips were on yours, the taste of Crest stinging peppermint on his lips, and the two of you were stumbling through the door and to his room. By the time he had reached back to fumble for the doorknob, a small but clear trail of clothing could be found—Gyro’s undershirt by the front door, which he had pulled off the moment he had shut it behind him, your shoes left in the living room; your jeans were in a haphazard heap at the start of the hallway, each leg pulled inside out when you had kicked them off and your keys and wallet spilling out from the pockets. Once they had been kicked off he had picked you up with an effortless sweep of his arms, unwilling to leave a second where he could not touch you.

He managed to get the door open and you both tumbled to the bed, you landing astride Gyro. Sitting up, you lifted your sweater over your head and tossed it aside, and Gyro’s stare instantly swept over the marks left by Wang Chan’s metal claw, alarm coloring his features and knotting together his brow. He caught your arm by the wrist, bringing close and turning it in the light, green eyes widening and then narrowing into fierce concentration. Lightly he traced over the scabbing wounds with his fingers and looked up at you, almost beside himself in his consternation as he gently set you aside and righted himself upward.

“What the fuck is that?”

“Don’t worry about it,” you breathed, moving to resume the kiss. It did not matter to you in that moment; it was just a cut, you could deal with it later

Not like my arm was literally the entire goddamn reason I came here or anything.

He dodged your efforts with a small tilt of his head, focusing his attention back to the wound.

“Too late,” he muttered, taking hold of your arm.  “I’m worried.”

“Why?” Blinking, you sat back, letting Gyro continue to examine the cuts. “I’ve been cleaning them and bandaging them. I just ran out of bandages, I was actually going to ask if you had any before…well, this.”

A brief glimpse of pride flickered across his face, lasting only seconds before he became serious once more.

“Bambina, these are deep. You might need stitches, you—when did this happen?”

“Tuesday night.”

Muttering in frustrated Italian, he looked from the wounds to you in exasperation, shaking his head while he stood and left the room. After five minutes, he came back, his hair swept from his face in a low bun save for the strands that had slipped out toward the front and a first aid kit tucked under his arm. He set the first aid kit onto the bed and with a brisk snap, he opened it and tossed back the lid, grabbing a bottle of astringent and tilting it onto a cotton swab. Then, taking your arm, he daubed it over the wounds until it was stained bright red, swapping it out for a clean one and throwing the soiled swab into the trash.

When he spoke, he did not look up.

“When was your last tetanus shot?”

“I think like, two years ago?”

“What have you been cleaning this with?”

“Hydrogen peroxide and soap?”

Gyro gave you a long look, rolling his eyes before turning his attention back to the wound. “Stop using peroxide. It delays healing and causes harm to the tissue, it doesn’t aid it.”

“I…didn’t know that.”

“Now you do.”

His expression darkened into one of barely concealed fury, his hand hovering over your arm, a fresh cotton swab held aloft.

“Did he do this?”

He did not need to clarify who “he” was. You knew by the look on his face alone.

“Dio?” Trying to make light of the conversation, the shift in his attitude now somewhat unnerving, you shrugged. “By proxy, maybe, but no. It was this guy that used to work for him named Wang Chan. He had this like, Freddy Krueger claw, and—”

“—Okay,” Gyro looked up at you, briefly overwhelmed. “Hold on. You need to rewind back and tell me everything. In detail. Now.”

“Gyro, it’s just—”

“—Now,” he repeated, far more stern. “Andiamo, bambina.”

He had a right to know.

With a long, deep breath, you collected yourself and recounted the night’s events. He listened attentively; all the while, he cleaned and assessed the wounds on your arm, seemingly wavering between whether or not to do more than he had already done. He appeared exasperated when you had mentioned being tailed by Midler and Dio, swinging over to outright disbelief when you had told him Dio had known about New Year’s Eve and how he had confronted you during the fight in the parking lot, then finally giving way to open mouthed horror when you had told him about Wang Chan and his horde of zombies, his horror breaking only for a moment when you had told him about the taser and he had laughed, nodding appreciatively. When you had finished, the two of you sat in silence, Gyro’s expression tight.

“It sounds like,” his voice fell stiff on your ears; there was a grim understanding in his eyes, one that eluded you and withheld something in its depths. “Whoever this is, they’re working for Dio right now. Because how else would they know who you are?”

Dread bloomed black in the pit of your stomach, and you zoned out, your stare unfocused as you looked through the bedroom window to the backyard visible between the slit of the blinds.

I didn’t think about that.

Gyro gave one decisive nod, returning to tending your wounds.

“That’s it. You need to leave his house. For your own safety.”

The thought sent a ripple of panic through you; immediately you worried for Diego.

“What about Diego? I can’t leave him there alone.”

“Diego will be fine.” Terse but reassuring, Gyro sighed. “He can take care of himself and very clearly isn’t the target. You are.”

Which presents its own dangers.

“Where would I even go, Gyro? I don’t have an apartment anymore, Dio saw to that. If I go to my parents’ house, they’re in danger. Same with friends and other relatives. I have nowhere to go.”

He looked you square in the eye, determined.

“Stay here, then. Or with Joseph.”

I guess I left out one detail.

“I can’t do that either. You know how Caesar thought I was a spy? Dio’s trying to make me into one now. He said I don’t have a choice, I need to be in close proximity to you guys and feed him information and mislead you when you get too close, and that he’d give me a Stand.”

His voice was like steel, his grip unconsciously tightening on your arm. “When did he tell you this?”

“The other night, after the attack. One of the things bit my leg and he healed it with his blood, he said it was a gift and that I wouldn’t be useful with a fucked up leg.”

“Then wouldn’t it make even more sense to stay here? What’s a better excuse to stay in close proximity to us than that? We’ll invent shit to tell him and you can mislead him instead. Bambina, you have to get out of there.”

“And put even more people in danger?”

His stare was piercing as he looked up at you, raising a thick eyebrow.

“If you’re so worried about that, then why come here to begin with? Doesn’t that put me in danger? He knows about us, weren’t you afraid of that?”

“I just—I don’t know, I wanted normal.”

“This is normal?” Gyro snorted, shaking his head. “That’s sad.”

“You’re normal.”

Gyro watched you in silence, his face unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice was low; he sounded wounded, speaking in a low, drawn out cadence.

“That almost makes me sound like a form of escapism, like I’m a distraction or something.”

There was a hint of an accusation in his voice, one that surprised you with how quickly it had cut into you. And for two reasons, it did. To a point, that had been true on New Year’s Eve; the accusation made you feel exposed, leaving you grappling with remorse. But now, looking at him as he tended to your arm, it had wounded you in turn. You found yourself wanting to reach out to him, tell him it was wrong and you enjoyed his company, that you had came not for the normalcy he promised but for him.

For the first time, you allowed yourself to entertain the notion that you might actually have started to like Gyro.

“I’m not saying anything right, I—look, that’s not what I meant. That makes it sound like I’m using you. And I’m not. I don’t know how to word it, like, the normal thing? But it’s not like that.”

“Well,” he said in a light voice, opening a sealed package of a pair of gloves he had grabbed from the first aid kit. “You’re going to have plenty of time to think about it, bambina. But the reason you’re going to is going to suck.”

Apprehension swept over you and Gyro furnished a sterilized needle and suture thread. Apologetic, he lifted them while he shrugged.

“You need stitches, and I don’t have any local anesthetic.”

“Doesn’t Hamon heal wounds? Like can’t you use that?”

“It does, but this actually needs medical attention. Hamon can’t solve everything. Honestly you should’ve gotten stitches when this happened, thankfully there’s no signs of infection so I’m not sewing it into you.”

“Can you like, knock me out or something? Like just punch me in the face so I don’t have to be awake for this.”

Gyro laughed outright, shaking his head as he threaded the needle. “I’m not punching you in the face. You gotta be tough for me, amore. Shouldn’t be too hard, right? Not for someone who used a fucking taser charged with Hamon to kill a vampire.”

Pausing, he seemed to reflect on something, a far away memory that eluded you. “Don’t tell Joseph about that, by the way. You’ll give him ideas.”

There was a twinge of dread in his voice at the prospect and you let it go. Gyro brought your arm close, concentration sharpening his stare, and you groaned.

Nope, this definitely was a bad idea, I should not have come over. 

“You might want to look away, otherwise you’re going to psych yourself out and think it hurts more.”

Diligently you complied, focusing on the vinyl records adorning his walls like artwork and doing everything in your power to stay still when the needle pierced through the wound. Sucking in air through your teeth and clenching your other fist, you downplayed the hurt—it reminded you of when one of your cousins had convinced you to let them pierce your ears, hovering your grandmother’s sewing needle over the flame of a stolen lighter and jamming it through your earlobe into the halved russet potato they had held on the other side. But it was infinitely worse, the nerves in your arm sending screaming pain up and to your chest, tightening your throat and flaring your nostrils as you breathed laboriously through them. And it felt never ending, the sharp stab accompanied by the foreign sensation of thread pulling together your skin repeating in a torturous loop.

“You’re doing great,” Gyro murmured reassuringly. “But you don’t need to act brave for me.”

“I’m fine,” you sighed, ignoring the stinging prick of tears at the corners of your eyes. “Getting an IUD hurt worse than this does.”

Briefly, Gyro’s hands paused. “You have an IUD? Never mind, you actually are brave. If I was a girl and got one, I would cry.”

“Men are babies,” you muttered, and Gyro smirked. “Are these the perks of hooking up with a doctor? Impromptu stitches, getting schooled on peroxide and casual talks about birth control insertion?”

Stifling another laugh, Gyro spared a glance at you.

“More or less, yeah.”

“Can I look yet?”

“I wouldn’t advise it. I got the first laceration stitched up though.”

You did anyway, taking in the neatly placed stitches coursing along your forearm with no small amount of awe. Fully impressed at his talent, you looked over to him, eyebrows raised. “You work quick.”

“I’m good with my hands,” Gyro answered, his tone decidedly casual before he looked upward, over exaggerating in his portrayal of someone who had just realized they had unintentionally said something that qualified as a double entendre. “I didn’t mean for that to come out the way it did.”

“Don’t lie,” you sighed, seeing through his act immediately and returned your focus to the walls. “Yes you did.”

Dropping all pretenses, Gyro nodded in defeat.

“Yeah, you’re right.” The prick-and-pull resumed, and you took a deep breath.

It had felt like hours had passed before Gyro had begun wrapping up your arm with gauze and lecturing you on how to change the bandages, reiterating several times to not use peroxide. But it had finally ended and you sunk to the mattress, gingerly cradling your arm as he peeled off the gloves and threw them in the trash. Gyro packed up the first aid kit and let down his hair, shaking it out with his free hand.

“Thanks.” Gesturing to your arm and holding it up for him to see, you smiled gratefully. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Actually I did, if I didn’t it would prolong the healing process and risk severe infection. But you’re welcome.”

“Should we get our clothes from the hallway?”

Gyro raised a quizzical eyebrow and set the first aid kit on the dresser.

“Why? Are we going somewhere?”

“I mean, no, but I’m pretty sure stitches and that entire conversation we had is a pretty big mood killer.”

“I forgot what we were doing before I found out you lost a fight with a wildebeest.” Gyro grinned and returned to the bed, laying next to you and gently bringing you close. “You’re okay, right? I know that hurt like a bitch.”

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

For a long moment he was quiet, idly playing with your hair before his expression soured and his gaze came to rest at your neck. Instinctively, you knew where it had fallen, and you silently cursed Dio’s entire existence for leaving it on you.

“I’m going to hate myself for asking this,” he groaned. “But I’m going to anyway, and I need you to be honest with me.”

“Okay.”

“Do you have feelings for him?”

Taken aback, you stared at Gyro, unsure if he had been joking.

“For Dio? Like…Dio? Dio Brando? Seriously?”

A mirthless laugh left him and he smiled, the gesture curiously hollow. “I’m serious.”

The easiest emotion to name was hatred. From the moment you had met him, you hated him. You hated that sardonic curve of his mouth, how it was indistinguishable from mirth and malice. You hated his laugh, smooth as silk when vicious and terrible as thunder when he gleefully reveled in your misery. You hated the feeling of his eyes on you, studying your every move with an intensity that made you shrink beneath it; it had made you feel like prey stalked by a predator. You hated that he represented everything you mourned and all that was robbed from you, and all that he had done.

You hated him.

But not in the quiet. Those tiny little moments where he had felt near human, his laugh gentle and his gaze almost adoring, the dry quips he would make enough to force to your lips a smile. All the moments where he seemed nearly remorseful, helpless to his own ambition and cruelty; all the tiny little moments where he had saved your neck, carrying you up steep hills and barricading you in sunless closets. In the quiet, he was another person entirely, one you almost liked and one you were never quite sure existed.

I could’ve liked him, if he didn’t turn out to be the fucking devil.

It did not matter. You feared the quiet now, anyway.

“I don’t,” you answered, praying you had not taken too long to answer. “He’s literally my worst nightmare made flesh.”

More softly, he asked another question that hit you like bullets through fog, startling and sudden and sharp. “Does he have feelings for you?”

Taking far time to answer, the past three months whirled across your conscience like a spinning roulette wheel and you sighed, landing on the memory of the conversation between you and Diego before he had called the Joestar group in that uncomfortable booth at Norms.

He was using you the entire time.

“No,” you said finally. “He doesn’t. I don’t even think Dio can feel—and that’s not sarcasm, I’m being serious. I’m pretty sure he was born evil, actually. Everyone is a pawn to him. The only person he’s ever going to care about is himself, and he barely qualifies as a person.”

“I see.” Gyro fell silent, doubt etched into his features like a bas-relief. “So…about me being normal.”

A long, drawn out exhale forced itself from your lungs and you brought your palm to your forehead with a hard smack. Before you could talk, he put up his hand, gently extending his palm forward to stop you.

“Aspetta, bambina. Hold on. Let me say something.”

Closing your mouth, you waited for Gyro to start talking. He took a deep breath, letting it out in one long exhale, and ran a hand through his hair.

“Nothing about this situation is normal, not even me. Not anymore, anyway. Before I moved here, I had a good job working at a hospital in Napoli and raced in my spare time. But my family, we were never normal. Even before Dio, we weren’t.”

He paused, clearly looking for the right words to say. “I uprooted my entire life to come here and help Caesar fight someone I had never even met, just so my life could go back to normal. But I realized it never could. I’m never going to know what normal is again. If you’re looking for normal in me, or anyone, or anything, you’re going to be very disappointed. Normal stopped existing for you the minute you met Dio.”

You slumped into his hold, sighing in defeat and taking great care to not bump your arm against him. “I know you’re right, and I’m mad about it. But is it too much to ask for something close to normal for like, five minutes?”

“What would that be?” Gyro seemed genuinely curious, perking up. “What’s close to normal for you, amore? We can go on a date and pretend we’re a normal couple or something, and that we met at a brewery or on Tinder, or whatever normal people do.”

The suggestion sent a curious panic rippling through you and you did not look at him, thinking back to the day at the beach.

“Oh, we’re a couple now?” 

“We can pretend to be one for five minutes if you want something close to normal.”

“Fine.” Sitting up, you crossed your arms, keeping the wounded arm on the outside. “Let’s say we pretended to be a couple for five minutes. What would you do?”

He did not miss a beat. “Tell you that I want longer than five minutes.”

“Ten minutes, then.”

“Not long enough.”

“What’s long enough for you? Half an hour? An hour? A day?”

“Maybe a month? Or six months. Or a year, maybe five. I’ll take what I can get but I’ll push for the most I can have. I like you too much to pretend for just five minutes.”

That had sent you reeling; you only expected him to think it was funny and move the conversation into a different, more lighthearted direction. Taking a second to process whether or not he was serious, discovering to your alarm that he in fact was, you decided to play it off.

“Even knowing everything that’s going on? I was wrong about you being normal, you’re a lunatic.”

“Or I have a death wish,” he teased. “Or I just don’t pay attention whenever you talk about how Dio will kill us if I sleep with you again, even though you were sending me nudes like five days ago and are half naked, in my bed, right now.”

Splaying his palms wide and extending them outward in a line, he acted as if he was reading from an invisible banner. “Gyro Zeppeli: doctor, horse jockey, death seeker, imaginary boyfriend, and proud owner of an attention span that flies out the window whenever a pretty girl smiles. I’m a man of many talents, aren’t I, amore?”

“Doctor Gyro Zeppeli sounds like the name of a circus act. How did your patients take you seriously?”

“They didn’t call me Doctor Gyro Zeppeli, for starters. They called me by my legal name.”

Curiosity piqued, you sat up. “Which is…?”

“Something I’m not telling you unless I plan on making you my wife one day,” he answered immediately. “If I ever stop being your pretend boyfriend, maybe I might consider it down the line.”

Despite the heaviness of the morning, you found yourself laughing, and he gave a light scoff before falling serious, intensity shifting into his stare.

“You want to know what it actually is, though? I don’t care about Dio or what he’ll do. At all. If he tried anything, I’d kill him first. And I don’t think you care either. You didn’t care what he would do to you when you and Diego sprung us out of that basement, or when you had us text Caesar and Joseph. You might have cared on New Year’s, but you didn’t when I saw you—what was it, a week ago? And you don’t care right now. You like me, amore, and you like me enough to risk being here no matter what you keep telling yourself. You owe it to yourself to admit that. Because that? That’s normal.”

Lost in thought, you lay there, staring straight ahead and chewing on the inside of your cheek. 

Maybe I do owe it to myself. And Dio hasn’t done anything yet. Plus, if we kill him—no, I don’t want to think about that. But I’m tired of him fucking up everything in my life. And if Gyro doesn’t care, why should I? 

Remembering the showdown outside the car before everything had happened with Wang Chan, you sighed, a low laugh flitting past your lips as you gingerly turned to Gyro, careful not to disturb the pain in your ribs or the stitches in your arm.

I should be allowed to be happy.

“Did I tell you about the argument me and Dio got into in the parking lot?”

“You did,” Gyro answered, blatantly unsure what direction the conversation was headed. “But you didn’t get into detail. You just said Dio knew.”

“He called me a whore and said that you were only doing this to pass the time. That once you got everything you wanted from me, you’d drop me and move onto someone else.”

“What a fucking prick,” Gyro spat, rolling his eyes. 

Smiling as embarrassment surged hot across your cheeks, you looked to the side.

“I…might have told him it was more than once and you were my boyfriend to make him mad.”

For a moment, he appeared to be unsure of what to make of what you had said. Intrigue, confusion, amusement, and shock all succeeded one another in rapid succession, and he chuckled as he settled in on disbelief.

“Ah, so you really want him to kill us. If that’s the case, fuck pretending. I guess I’m your boyfriend now, you already said I was and I’m not dying over playing pretend.”

This is a bad idea.  Or, it’s the right choice, and I’m too scared of losing him to admit it.

“I guess you are,” you said weakly, giving up on worrying about the consequences.

Resting his hand on your hip, his eyes met yours, his expression softening into admiration as his thumb traced its curve.

“Vieni qui, mio piccolo assassino di vampiri.”

Grinning excitedly, you rapidly tapped on Gyro’s side to get his full attention, completely sidetracked by the fact that you had understood two of those words. It was not exactly difficult to discern the meaning behind “assassino” and “vampiri”; still, you wanted him to know.

“I understood some of that! Vampire killer, right? What’s vieni qui?”

“Come here,” he answered, and he pulled you into a kiss.

Diego called precisely one hour later, not bothering with so much as a hello before launching into a tirade about how hungry he was. Gyro had went with you to pick him up, both of you in decided disarray despite the attempts to smooth out your hair and clothing, and when you had arrived at the riding club in Gyro’s Bronco the two of you sat in the parking lot, watching Diego scan it in mounting confusion and marveling over his lithe stature despite his clear love of food.

“Maybe it’s a lizard thing?” Gyro shrugged. “I’m not a veterinarian, I don’t know.”

“Wouldn’t it be a herpetologist?” 

“I legitimately don’t even know what that is. Is that a lizard veterinarian? Do you have to take him to one when he’s molting?”

Growing up, whenever someone your grandmother had been talking unfavorably toward would call or walk in the room, she would always say “their ears must have been burning, they knew I was talking about them.” She had always said it to make you laugh, the image of someone with steam hissing out of their ears whenever you heard the phrase one that always entertained you.

When Diego called you five minutes into you and Gyro debating on whether Diego needed a doctor, physician or herpetologist, it reminded you of that saying; again, without so much of a hello, he immediately launched into a line of questioning.

“You said you were bloody here, where are you?”

“The green Ford Bronco.”

“The what? You don’t drive a green Ford Bronco, why are you in a green Ford Bronco?”

From the rearview mirror, you watched him approach, bewildered as he hung up the phone. He had walked toward the driver’s side, letting out a sharp yell when he realized it was Gyro in the front seat.

“For Christ’s sake!” Diego stormed to the passenger’s side, pressing his hands to the window and staring at you in astonishment; beside you, Gyro sank into laughter. “Roll down the goddamn window!”

You did, and Diego flicked you on the nose, wagging a disapproving finger at you before shooting Gyro a scathing look.

“No! Bad! Bad woman!”

“What am I, a dog?”

“You’re a bloody moron,” he sighed. “What part of ‘be on your own for a while’ did not sink in? I leave you alone for—hang on,” his eyes zeroed in on the white bandages peeking out from your sleeve. “What’s happened to your arm?”

“Stitches,” you answered, fully drawing your sleeve up and holding your forearm eye level to Diego. “Get in the car, let’s get food.”

Resigned, he looked over to Gyro. “He’s coming too, isn’t he?”

“Sorry, Reptar,” Gyro unlocked the car as he spoke. “I’m coming too. I get tagalong privileges now.”

Warily he looked at Gyro before glancing toward you, then back to him again. 

“Why would you get tagalong privileges?”

“Well, for starters it’s my car.”

“Oh goddamnit,” Diego muttered, climbing into the car. “You’ll have to take me through a drive-thru, then, looking like that.”

Gyro rolled his eyes. “Which one serves crickets? That’s what lizards eat, right? Or is it worms? I don’t know, I don’t really spend a lot of time with lizards.”

Diego sulked in the back seat, glaring at you.

“Please,” he groaned. “Don’t tell me he’s your boyfriend.”

Gyro pulled out of the parking lot and slipped his hand in yours. Without thinking twice, you ran the pad of your thumb across the slope of his palm while Diego mumbled a slew of insults under his breath.

“For fuck’s sake,” Diego sighed. “He is, isn’t he?”

***

Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels, with its peculiar blocky shape and sand-colored walls and jutting edges, felt less like a house of God and more like a house of opulence. With its post-modern architecture and notoriously high construction costs, it had been a divisive institution from its conception; built after the Northridge quake, it had cost well over one hundred million dollars, a cost that in the priest’s humble opinion could have been better spent serving those in need that lived in tent cities outside its walls.

It was not his church in Florida, but it was a church nonetheless, and so Pucci had made it his home.

When he had arrived to the city, he had found himself plagued with questions, wondering what had brought him here. Was it fate that had brought him to this godless city whose name was a mockery of His angels? This city, filled with exorbitant wealth that lay a stone’s throw from abject poverty, side by side in a war started long ago by people that had been dead for years? Had it been God’s will, that his pious and devoted servant toiled in its streets?

No, it had not been fate. It had been gravity.

It had been Dio.

Dio was God’s will made flesh, blessed with the beauty of His angels, the honor of sharing His very name, and the ability to perform miracles like his son. Two such miracles had happened to Pucci personally, the first while tending to the mausoleum below the church. It was there he had met Dio, hiding from the daylight, and it was there Dio had seen his twisted foot—a complication of his birth—and healed it with his touch.The second was when Dio had seen fit to do so, he had bestowed upon Pucci the Stand ability, bequeathing unto it the name Whitesnake.

It was in that same mausoleum he found himself now, tending to those same crypts he had tended to that fateful night. With a cleaning cloth, he had buffed at the marble tomb of Gregory Peck, that man that had embodied Atticus Finch both on and off screen. Footsteps echoed closer and he paused; he knew them to be his.

“Lord Dio,” he greeted, offering him a gentle smile as he straightened his back. “I was not expecting to see you here.”

All traces of joviality left him as concern crept through his being at the sight of the man that he knew to be divinity personified. Brow drawn together, his mouth sharply curved into a deep frown, the serene divinity that emanated from Dio with such ease was marred by a determined anger that glowed in his eyes; in them Pucci could read the scriptures of the Old Testament, the wrath of a vengeful God.

“Can I trust you, Pucci?” Like a flint and steel, Dio’s voice struck through the silent halls of the mausoleum, falling onto the white marble that dominated the walls and floor.

“Of course, Lord Dio.” The question perplexed him, and he would be lying if he said it did not hurt him a little. Dio had many disciples, this Pucci knew well, but he was the only one he knew Dio considered to be a friend. “Have I done anything to earn your mistrust?”

“That depends. Does the name Wang Chan hold any familiarity for you?”

It did not. He wracked his brain trying to pick it out from a swirling haze of memories—perhaps a parishioner, perhaps a member of the mob he had accidentally set on his sister and long lost brother; though that had thankfully proved fruitless, as both Perla and Wes had escaped their clutches. He had broken them up by other means, and though it had crushed Perla greatly, it would devastate her more if she knew she had fallen in love with her own brother—and it did not stand out to him at all. Shaking his head, he answered Dio.

“I do not. Who is he?”

Dio stared at him for what had felt like ages, and Pucci stood calmly under his scrutinizing gaze. Seeing that he had told the truth, his features relaxed a little, and he leaned against the mausoleum wall that Pucci had just cleaned.

“He was a former associate of mine. Two nights ago, he made an attempt on my assistant’s life.”

Pucci had seen the girl, almost always scowling behind the screen of her laptop, either completely unaware or resentful that she had the privilege of being in the presence of someone like Dio. He had seen her but they had never spoken, and to a point he knew it had been intentional on her part. Barring Diego and perhaps Midler and Mariah, she treated everyone with unquestionable scorn, looking down on them for seeking out Dio and joining his mission.

He had developed, to his surprise, a certain disdain for her—not because of her scorn, but due to the fact that almost always, when Dio interacted with her, he slipped into an unshakable despondent fury. After the third time it had became clear to Pucci that Dio had loved her, and she had in some way wounded him. It pained him to see him in such sorrow, and it angered him that a man whose presence felt like a roaring flame could be reduced to brooding cinders by her words alone. But more than anything it worried Pucci, and he had begun to fear that she could destroy everything Dio had begun to build. 

Though such thoughts were sinful, he found himself disappointed that Wang Chan, whoever he was, did not succeed.

He spoke delicately, his expression smooth. It was best to not let Dio know his true feelings.

“Is she all right?”

Dio nodded, his expression still curiously hardened. “She was wounded, but I healed her. Just as I had healed your foot when we met.”

“You’re too generous.”

“Perhaps,” Dio said softly, that wound Pucci had seen in him reopening just a crack. His arm fell to his side, the cleaning cloth limp in his hold.

“What is it that troubles you, Lord Dio?”

“What would you do if you learned there may be a traitor amongst those you keep close?”

Lost in thought, Pucci fell silent as he pondered the question; closing his eyes with a sigh, his tone was careful.

“The girl? Has she fully sided with the Joestars?”

“No,” Dio replied. “But it would appear there is a snake in my little Garden of Eden. He told her that he had been sent to kill her in my name, and that it was an attempt on her life planned by someone that felt she was a distraction.”

Pucci found himself greatly disappointed that Wang Chan did not succeed, and intrigued that someone else had seen her for what she was.

But he knew Dio had held a bigger purpose for her. He knew she functioned as a liaison to the Joestars, that hateful little family that had hindered Dio for far too long. He knew that Dio planned to give her a Stand. And he knew that, for whatever reason, he saw a potential in her that no one else could quite grasp.

Pucci decided to be frank.

“Forgive me for speaking out of turn, as I know you have plans for her. But is she not a distraction in other ways? Your love for her, for example, can be construed as a distraction.”

Dio had always been a man that was ten steps ahead; it was clear in the way his lips parted open and his eyes widened that he was certain he had been ahead of the curve long enough to hide his feelings. But Pucci had spent his life hearing the confessions of sinners and uniting in matrimony those truly in love, and he knew how to spot it from a mile away.

“Is it obvious, Pucci?”

“Only to those who truly wish to look.”

Changing the subject, he slipped into his role. “I do not know who sent Wang Chan after her. But I can look. You’d do well to put distance between yourself and the girl until then. Your plans aside, it would be in her best interests. It would keep her safe.”

Dio seemed to wither; it became clear he had thought it as well. His voice low, he looked away from Pucci.

“I consider you a friend, and I know that you would never let this leave these walls. Like the dead, you’ll keep this secret safe. But am I a fool? For keeping her here, knowing she is never going to be mine?”

“Lord Dio,” Pucci met his eyes, his gaze unflinching. “Would you like me to be honest?”

***

When Dio had left, Pucci gently set down his cleaning cloth and dusted off his overcoat before locking up the mausoleum and driving to Silver Lake. In pondering silence he had made his way to the strip mall that held the curio shop he knew was owned by Enya Geil, a loathsome old witch that Pucci knew had a comfortable spot reserved for her in Hell. He had heard her gleefully recount her sins endless times before; once, she had turned an entire graveyard into the illusion of a city filled with the sick in order to trap a few men that had committed a slight against her equally ghastly son, and she had told the story as if she was bragging about a quilt she had made. As if it were a mere hobby. But Pucci knew her days were spent in black market dealings and telling fortunes, and Dio had offhandedly remarked that Wang Chan was the fortune teller that had sold him the poison he used to kill his drunkard father.

He was, in part, genuinely amazed Dio had not made the connection. But he knew that he had not because of who the person Enya had sent him after was, and that when it came to her, Dio tended to develop a blind spot. She was his Achilles heel.

Pucci killed the engine and strolled inside.

“Enyaba,” he greeted quietly. He nodded in her direction, but it proved useless; she did not look up at him, focused on a beetle ensconced in amber that she turned over in her withered hand.

“Priest,” she spat. “I don’t allow dogs in my store. Run along back to your master, he may be worried that one of his puppies is off their leash. You wouldn’t want to get hit by a car, would you?”

“Are we not leashed by the same man? And would that same man not, say, put down a bloodhound if it had sniffed out a way to kill his assistant in cold blood?”

Enya froze, slowly looking up toward Pucci and setting down the amber cabochon, her bulging eyes like two sallow spotlights fixed on him. 

“How interesting,” she wheedled, deftly withdrawing a pair of scissors from a drawer beneath the display case. “I didn’t know brown nosing puppies could bark, let alone try to bite.”

Pucci was not one for banter, especially not with someone he was reluctant to even be in the company of. But Dio was worth setting aside his reluctance for.

“He knows, Enyaba. Not that it was you, but he knows it was someone in his ranks. The assailant you sent told the girl before he struck. She lived, by the way.”

She kept her tone pleasant, but she appeared to be on the verge of committing murder. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Priest. I’m just an old woman trying to run a business. But I’m glad the girl is all right. What happened to Wang Chan?”

Pucci smiled.

“I didn’t say it was Wang Chan that had tried to kill her. But you can relax, and put down your scissors. I’m not here to bring you to Dio for your actions.”

Enya did not put down the scissors, but she did not advance on Pucci either.

“Then why are you here, Pucci?”

“I’m here because I love Dio as I love God, Enyaba. Because I serve him as I serve God. Because I believe in his mission, his power, his ability to change the world into one without pain or hurt. I’m here because I also see the girl as a threat, and you were sloppy. And I would not be as sloppy. I would be two steps ahead.”

Enya put down the scissors.

“You’re saying you also want the girl dead?”

“I’m not saying I want her dead. I’m saying,” Pucci answered. “The girl needs to die.”

Chapter Text

The small cluster of ruins outside Mexico City, long since forgotten by time and abandoned in favor of far more picturesque historical sites, was for the first time filled with more people than the spit of land had seen in decades. Among the crumbling stone they toiled, freshly turned dirt packed over pits that had yielded no reward when dug. A makeshift break area had been hastily erected near one of the earliest digs under a blue E-Z Up canopy and stacked liberally with coolers of water and beer, a slew of work trucks parked behind it in a semicircle. Clouds blanketed the blue March skies in deep impenetrable grey; despite this, it was a sweltering eighty-one degrees out. Sweat drenched down their backs as they watched the workers dig, shouting to them in broken Spanish to be careful.

“Cuidado,” the blonde man called, tipping down the brim of his Stetson hat to protect him from the rays of a sun that wasn’t really there and knowing full well how wonky the word sounded with his Southern drawl. “What we’re lookin’ for is fragile. Es frageelay.”

“Sí, sí, sabemos!” One of the workers paused to wipe sweat from his brow, giving him a wide grin. “Es fragíl, jefe. Fragíl. No se pronuncia ‘frajeelay’.”

Another one chortled under his breath, shaking his head. “Coo-wee-dah-doe. Pinche cabron.”

Born in Dallas and a drifter by nature, he had traveled the world—Cairo, Sendai, and Calcutta just a few of the destinations he could cross off his list—for anything from money to women, whatever worked best to his advantage in his trek across the globe. Almost always his priorities erred toward whichever destination promised him a lot of money, and for this reason alone he had taken the job in Mexico. Find a mask, bring it back to some rich Hollywood douchebag in Bel Air, get paid: that was all he had been told, and it was all he needed to hear.

His only complaint was the heat, which would have been otherwise bearable were it not for how humid it was. There was no reprieve from it; it stuck to him like glue, slicking his hair down his forehead and neck and making his clothes stick to him in all the wrong places. 

Striking the flint of his trusty Zippo lighter and cupping the tip of his cigarette, he brought the flame close and ignited it with a deep inhale, breathing out a plume of Marlboro Red. Then he turned to the man beside him, a squat man with a thick mustache and tired eyes, his shirt covered in burnt sienna and an entertained smile on his face. He was the foreman of the crew, and he had struck up a bit of a friendship with the man since his arrival in January.

“Are they making fun of me?” He jerked his thumb toward the workers.

“They’re making fun of your Spanish, yes.”

“I guess that’s fair. Mi español es muy malo.”

“It is. But they like you, at least. They call you El Semental.”

He pinched the butt of his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and took it from his mouth. “What’s that mean?”

“The Stallion. Because of your name. They have…less endearing nicknames for your partner.”

“Ah,” he drawled with a slow nod. “I can see why they don’t like him. I don’t like him all that much myself. What do they call him?”

“Nothing I want to say while God is watching,” he pointed up to the sky as he spoke. “The nicest one is cabeza de huevo.”

“Egg head?”

“That’s it.”

He took a long look at his partner, sitting by the cooler in a folding chair and fanning himself with a piece of cardboard, and thought that calling the man ‘egg head’ was a kindness he did not deserve. The man looked like some bizarro world Humpty Dumpty, meticulously crafted in Guillermo del Toro’s nightmares and made flesh by whatever God his mother had pissed off. His head was shaped like a bruised pear and he could count on one hand how many teeth were left in his mouth; lost within the sallow creases of his face were two milky-white eyes like crescent moons turned on their sides. Though he was well-built and often wore a sleeveless leather vest to show off the muscles in his arms, it was nowhere near enough to compensate for how grotesque he was. The two right hands, he decided, also did not help.

“He really is one ugly sumbitch,” the man said as he took another drag of his cigarette. “Ain’t he?”

From the pit, the sound of a shovel scraping stone interrupted the two, followed by curious murmurs in Spanish. Then one of the workers had let out a bloodcurdling scream and threw back his shovel, drowning out the foreman’s reply. Scrambling to crawl out of the hole as fast as he could, the dirt giving way under him and sending him sliding back down to the pit, he fought against the earth like Sisyphus with his stone. 

“La mascara! Es la mascara del Diablo! Los putos gringos nos van a sacrificar al Diablo! Todos salgan de aqui, ahora!”

He spoke around the cigarette as he watched the workers closest to the one that had been climbing began to scatter in terror, its lit tip bobbing around in his mouth. “What’re they saying now? Something about the devil?”

“Mr. Hol Horse,” the foreman said carefully, watching him from the corner of his eye. “What exactly did you send my men to look for?”

“A Stone Mask. Did they find it?”

“They did,” he answered. “And they think you’re going to use it to sacrifice them to the devil.”

“Well, that ain’t why we had y’all dig it up for us. We’re just here to send it off to the guy who hired us to find it.”

He tossed the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his boot.

“J. Geil,” he called to his partner. “They found the mask. We’re good to go.”

“Oh, good,” his partner wheezed as he stood, a reedy laugh shaking his shoulders. “I’ve always wanted to go on a vacation in Italy. I wonder if their women are as beautiful as the ones I found in France.”

Hol Horse did not like the way he had said that at all.

Rubbing his hands together, J. Geil laughed loudly as a sliver of light ricocheted through the workers and the foreman, all of them falling dead where they stood as red slashed open across their throats. In the center of the pit, the mask shook and wobbled, six prongs shooting out from each side of the mask as blood splattered across its face. Frowning, Hol Horse jumped into the pit and lifted the mask, using the shirt of one of the workers to wipe the blood off.

“Wonder why it did that,” Hol Horse said idly. “And you didn’t need to kill them all.”

“She said leave no survivors. That means no survivors.”

“Well.” Tossing the mask over the edge of the hole and climbing out, he began dragging the nearest body to it. “Might as well bury these guys before we head back. What a shame, I liked them.”

“How much do you think Dio’s going to pay us?”

“I think,” Hol Horse said as he threw the body into the hole. “Whatever it is, it ain’t gonna be enough.”

***

Why had he ever entertained the idea of something so delusional as love?

In all ways, he was superior to those that served him. No mere mortal could rival him in speed, agility, strength, cunning, intellect, and charisma. He had killed and bedded hundreds in equal measure, he had brought fearsome knights back from the dead to do his bidding. He was, in every way, unmatched. By pulse alone he could discern exactly what was pleasurable and what brought on pain. He could pick out a lie from the skip of a heartbeat, he could hear betrayal from a ragged breath. Love was for simpering poets and histrionics that stuck their heads in ovens, Dio was a god. A god had no need for love.

Pucci had been right all along. The girl was a distraction, nothing more.

“L—Lord Dio—”

“—I did not say to speak,” he growled, thrusting himself in deeper and savoring the way Vanilla Ice jolted beneath his hips. A whimpering moan shuddered from him, pulsing its way from the base of his spine to his throat. In approval, Dio dug his nails deeper into the supple flesh of his hips until the skin gave way, leaving a smattering of crescent moons that bled ruby under his touch. 

No god had felt true love, not even the king and queen of the Olympians. Zeus coveted Hera, and yet the constellations were littered with his conquests and the earth besieged by his bastards. Even Ganymede, the boy he so adored that he had stolen him away from Phrygia to make him his cup bearer, did not hold Zeus’s heart. The only true love the son of Kronos had ever felt was his love of power, for his throne upon Olympus and for the Heavens he fought the Titans to conquer. 

Why should he be any different?

“Look at you, quivering and shaking for your Lord Dio’s cock. You’re a perfect little servant.”

This was an act of contrition that suited a God such as him. An act of blind devotion, an unconditional and unmitigated surrender of body and mind. Vanilla Ice, Mariah, Midler—daily he had basked in their adoration, the possibilities it had promised ones he had rebuffed for so long, yet always ripe for the taking. And for what? For her? 

What a fool he had been.

He could feel it sneaking up on him. That rush of release, of a pleasure unmatched with the exception of drinking down someone’s life, pouring up from the tips of his fingers and the soles of his feet, ever ready to sublimate him and wash away for just a moment the infuriating ghost of her touch. Hungry for it, he chased it, bringing Ice’s hips down onto the base of him so eagerly that the man had collapsed in euphoria, all the strength left in him focused on the frenzied pump of his fist along his length as he moaned out Dio’s name.

“That’s it,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Good little servant.”

Ice was close, he could hear it in how harried his breathing had grown. Dimly, Dio remembered that the sheets had been freshly laundered; he did not care to soil them, and with Ice on his hands and knees it had left Dio few options to avoid such a mess.

If he ruins my sheets with his disgusting seed I’m going to rip out his carotid and drink from it like a spout.

At the last second, Dio unsheathed himself and forced Vanilla Ice onto his back, his smile almost pitying as he finished on Ice’s stomach. For a beautifully brief moment, Dio was satisfied. Pleasure clouded his thoughts, quelled his tumultuous soul.

And then he thought of her. Like a specter, she had risen from the grave he had buried her in and crept into the depths of his very mind. He could not drive away the thought of her laying in cheap sheets while that caricature of a man grinned at her with those hideous plated teeth, whispering to her in exaggerated Italian. Signorina, bambina, amore. Dio knew full well that she had chosen him, that soon her loyalty would lie with him. And through him, the Joestars. 

It had become increasingly hard to put aside what Pucci had told him in the mausoleum. With no compunction, he had told Dio that it had been foolish to keep her in the mansion—not because she had been thrown squarely into danger by proximity alone, but because of the danger she posed to him. That misguided delusion of love had been derailing his plans, leaving Dio to make one mistake after the other to cash in on whatever potential he had seen in her and ultimately driving her into the Joestars’ arms. But allowing her to leave could put everything at risk, and cost Dio all that he had ever worked for.

It was an oversight, sending her to them. While he had hoped it would give him a way to survey the Joestars, to lull them into a false sense of security and get him close enough to drain Joseph of his blood, it had only backfired. Now, she was further from him than ever. He would never admit it aloud, but he may as well have handed her a knife to drive into his back.

That was why he had to find the one that had sent Wang Chan after her. He would squash out their little plan, obtain the last Stone Mask, and once the Red Stone of Aja was in his hands he would become the Ultimate Being.

And he would bathe the mask in her blood after he had slit her throat.

Ice whimpered from the sheets, reaching out for Dio, agonized by his own arousal that he had not yet been freed from.

“Poor boy,” Dio whispered, trailing a finger across his cheek, his adoring gaze just barely concealing his contempt. “You want me to give you permission? Go ahead. Seek your release.”

“Y—Yes, Lord Dio,” he hiccuped. 

His face red, he brought himself to full, his release mingling with Dio’s own on his abdomen.

What a disappointment. I thought this would be more satisfying.

Dio rose from the bed and went to clean himself off, overall unfulfilled by the experience and more than a little annoyed. Quickly, he showered, his mood souring more and more under the water. When he had shut off the water and returned to his room, drying off his hair with one towel and the other wrapped around his hips, he could faintly pick up on the sound of his phone vibrating from the pocket of his pants. Lifting them from the floor, he tossed them back down with little care where they lay, Enya’s name in white across the screen.

It had better be good news. I may kill her just for calling me right now.

“What?” Dio snapped into the phone, conveying with a stare alone to Vanilla Ice that he needed to clean himself off and get out. Gingerly, Ice lifted himself from the bed and walked into the bathroom to wash off.

“Lord Dio! I just got off the phone with my son, he’s on his way back from Mexico.”

The cheerfulness of the crone caught his intrigue, and he waited, his eyes fixed on the daylight just beyond the blackout curtains that dominated every inch of the windows of his room.

Let this be what I think it is. Let this be a victory.

“He’ll be here in the evening with his partner. And they have not returned empty handed.”

If his heart had still worked, it would have thrown itself into a frenzied rhythm. Elated triumph soared into his veins, intoxicating and stupefying in its ferocity, and he felt a genuine smile creep across his mouth.

“They found it?” Dio breathed out the words, not bothering to conceal how pleased he was, his internal tumult quickly forgotten.

“They found it, Lord Dio.”

***

The mansion had always held within its walls a quiet promise of danger, one you had remained peripherally aware of from the moment you had first set foot inside. But it was always a manageable danger, one that could always be put off to deal with another day. Stuck in the house with a vaguely dangerous vampire that had seemed clueless of the world around him? Download TikTok for him and pray he got absorbed into the app like everyone else had. Said vampire brings in his shapeshifting Dinosaur relative to live with you after finding him through an ill-advised DNA test? Befriend the relative, it was better to be on their good side than live through a live action role play of Jurassic Park. Adapt or die, that was what you had decided when he had made you drive to Bel Air and that was what had served you well.

Until now.

Now the danger was tangible; it existed in every sidelong glance and every whispered conversation just outside of earshot. Horror movies had taught you that the daylight was safe, that it protected you from those that dwelled in the night to subdue and consume you. But the danger was inarguably at its highest whenever you would walk in the door after training, away from Dio’s prying eyes and imposing countenance. Under him, they would never make a move; outside his influence, you were free game.

The state of fear it all had left you in had reached the point to where you did not leave the guest house unless you had to—training with Joseph and Caesar, taking Diego to see his horse, various work errands, sneaking out whenever you could risk it to see Gyro—and for once Dio did not push the issue. Instead he left you there, communicating primarily through text messages, and coming into the guest house to speak with you only when it was necessary. 

There was a profound change in him, too. He had went from quietly detached to outwardly cold, his whispered bid for you to join him seemingly forgotten. Each conversation was in a tone nothing short of curt on his end, and contempt oozed from him like poison. While a relief in some aspects, the change outright frightened you in others, and as the days passed you considered more and more Gyro’s impassioned pleas to get you out of there. Even Joseph had offered to take you in, once he and Caesar had been made aware of everything happening.

If Dio knew about your life in the light, he never let it on.

But for weeks, nothing had came of it. Barring a couple strange looks from Enya and Vanilla Ice, there was no real reason for the way your hair rose on the nape of your neck whenever you were alone.

Then you had came back from training one clear, balmy afternoon in March to find Pucci, alone, reading a Bible on the couch, a small thrum of warning quickened your pulse. When he snapped the book shut and looked up at you while you closed the door, his placid smile sent cold through you.

“Ah, (Y/N),” he called in a genial voice as he stood. “I don’t believe we’ve ever had the chance to be properly introduced. My name is Enrico Pucci.”

He did not extend his hand for you to shake, and you kept yours at your side in turn.

“We haven’t,” you replied, guarded. “Between work and training, I’ve been busy. Sorry.”

“And how is your training with the Joestars going? Well, I hope?”

While exhausting, in truth it had been going quite well. For the short time you had been training you had already gotten the hang of the basics and moved onto more intermediate techniques. You were in no way a natural, not like they were or Gyro and Johnny—or even Jotaro, on the very rare occasions you would see him—but you were learning quickly, and you were in no small amount proud of that. 

For a moment you worried you were being too paranoid. After all, he was just a priest that seemed to put his faith in false idols. He was always quiet, affable, polite. Pucci, for all his questionable judgment, did not send a chill down your spine the way the likes of Vanilla Ice or Enya had. And really, nothing had happened.

But looking as closely as you could manage without it being suspicious, you saw how his calm smile did not meet his eyes. You saw how there was something cold in them, something hard, and your stomach tightened in knots.

Something’s off.

Downplaying it was the safest bet. “Well enough, I guess. It’s a lot harder than I thought it would be, I barely understand how to nail the breathing down properly.” 

“Really?” Pucci chuckled, lightly shaking his head. “Lord Dio spoke so highly of how you had defeated Wang Chan. It was with a taser charged with Hamon, wasn’t it? I would hate to think that was a fluke.”

I doubt that.

Mustering the best impression of an embarrassed smile you could summon, you shrugged at Pucci.

“It’s looking like it, so far. But Joseph and Caesar said I show promise, so maybe I’ll have my breakthrough soon.”

“Maybe,” Pucci agreed. “They say Hamon is life itself, a gift bestowed by God. I’ll include my hopes of a breakthrough for you in my prayers tonight.”

“I’d appreciate that,” you said with a polite nod. “Thanks.”

Leaning to pick up his Bible from the coffee table, he held it at his side and straightened the hem of his coat.

“Evening Mass is at seven. Would you care to attend? You may find God to be looking in your favor if you do.”

“Can’t,” you answered, the suggestion prompting a fresh wave of alarm. “Work. Maybe another time.”

“Another time,” Pucci echoed, heading for the door. “I’ll see you soon, (Y/N).”

“Later,” you called with a wave, sinking to the couch and losing your composure the moment Pucci was gone. Mind racing, you picked apart every word Pucci had said for every sort of nuance it could hold within, reciting it over and over. Everything from the look in his eye to his placid smile was held under the same sharp scrutiny as his speech, the entire exchange leaving a bad taste in your mouth. As the day faded to dusk, you had arrived to one conclusion that had left you a hair’s breadth from a panic attack: if he was not behind Wang Chan’s attack, at the very least he knew something. He was involved.

Biting down your nails to the quick as you deliberated on the best course of action, you watched the sky change and waited for full dark.

Not Gyro, he’d just freak out. Same with Joseph and Caesar. I have no idea where Diego is. 

There’s really no other choice.

Dio descended the staircase at nightfall, his mood lighter than you had seen it in weeks, and you rose to meet him. Without hesitation, you grabbed his arm and tried in vain to pull him toward the door. Voicing your suspicions in the house felt like bringing the knife to your neck; you still were never quite sure when it was occupied. He surveyed your efforts with a faintly annoyed expression, and despite his clear displeasure you persisted.

This is too important, his angsty bullshit can wait.

“I need to talk to you,” you urged, yanking on his arm. “Come on.”

Wrenching his arm from your grip, he held his hand up and out of reach; it almost looked like he was about to slap you, and you flinched. At the sight, Dio smirked, a faint eye roll fluttering his lashes.

“Attempting to dislocate my arm is not endearing me to hearing you out,” he said, taking a step back and lowering his arm. “Does this conversation you’re so desperate to have hold any bearings on your specified duties outlined per your contract?”

Impatience overshadowed your anxiety. “Fuck the contract, this is important!”

“So important that you cannot simply tell me now? You have to drag me, where, the yard?”

“I don’t want anyone to hear us,” you whispered, looking around the house. “Just come on!”

“The house is empty. It’s just you and I here. You’re being erratic.”

That’s fucking lucky.

“Pucci,” you said immediately, his name a strained shout on your tongue. “He knows something about Wang Chan, he’s in on it.”

Dio’s eyebrows flew up, and for one brief moment he appeared taken aback. Then his features smoother over, settling into his trademark incongruence between tranquility and scorn.

“Perhaps your self-imposed isolation has made you prone to delusion.” Dismissive, he waved off the suggestion with little more than a faint shake of his head. “It is quite the opposite. Pucci is looking into the issue on my behalf.”

“But he—” you began, and Dio cut you off.

“(Y/N).” His tone became sharp, the ghost of a sneer tugging at his upper lip. “It was not Pucci. Let it go. I do not employ you for your detective work, and it is decidedly not your strong suit.”

Staring up at him, you said the first thing that came to mind, desperate to state your case and make him understand.

“He asked me to go to his evening sermon. Does he ask everyone in the house that?”

“He’s a priest,” Dio snapped. “Of course he does. That’s his job.”

“He also asked about training.”

It became clear in the way Dio rolled his eyes—far more overt, deliberate enough to make sure you had noticed—that you were pushing it, but you did not care. You needed him to hear you.

“So your entire basis of this theory hinges on…small talk? This is a waste of my time.”

Dio turned to leave; whether it was due to mounting frustration or panic, or some dangerous combination of both, you seized hold of his arm and pulled as hard as you could. With ease he shoved you off, anger bright in his eyes as he slowly faced you.

“You won’t let this go, will you? Like a dog with a bone, you refuse to drop it despite my repeated assurance that it is being dealt with. Fine. Perhaps this will drive it home for you: My sole concern is the insubordination in my ranks. I do not know where you came up with the idea that I am your knight in shining armor, ready to save you at a moment’s notice from any real or perceived threat. But I am quite far from it, little pet. If you are truly searching for someone to indulge your desire to be a damsel in distress, call Gyro. He even has a horse, I’m sure he’ll ride in on it to rescue you.”

“You can be a real fucking prick when you want to be, you know that?” Incensed, you stared up at Dio, jabbing your index finger into his chest. “Like you said, it’s someone in your ranks that want me dead. I don’t need a knight in shining armor, I need you to pull your head out of your ass for five fucking seconds and listen to me. I could die! Do you even care about that?”

Dio smiled, a cruel and venomous smile that curved his lips like a guillotine blade. 

“Darling,” he murmured. “Where did you ever get the idea I cared about your life? You may not have said it out loud, but you chose your side. You chose the Joestars, you chose your boyfriend.”

In one fell swoop he had left you hollow. Fear bled through the frustration and anger that had pounded through your veins, dulling your pulse and sending your heart racing all at once. In the gold of his eyes you could see it, that delight at your fear, how he drank it in like wine.

“Did you think I did not notice? You slinking into the house smelling like him? Or the Instagram stories he would post? Funny, despite the fact that we had never interacted on Instagram or TikTok he had blocked me right after he had stitched up your arm. Made me think he had something to hide. What a vindicating feeling to see that I had been right.”

This is about Gyro? Is he fucking serious?

“You’re willing to let me die over having a boyfriend?”

“No,” Dio said lightly, crossing his arms. “But I am willing to let you die for sleeping with the enemy. I gave you the opportunity to join me. Perhaps I would have cared more if you had taken it. Let them worry about you. The burden of doing so has exhausted me, and I’ve grown tired of it.”

Dio relaxed, leaning on one hip as he looked down at you, that smile not once leaving his face.

“Get out. I need you gone for the next few hours, I don’t care where you go. I’m expecting guests soon, and I’d rather not give them the impression that I hire cheap escorts as a hobby.”

Storming to the guest house, you remembered Gyro’s plea: you need to get out of that house. He had practically begged you to leave that day, offering you his own home to stay in—anything had been better than staying with Dio in this giant mansion. Grabbing your keys and a trash bag, you shoved in clothes at random, taking mostly outfits you knew you wore frequently and essentials like bras and underwear. 

He had been right. Anything was better than here.

Not with the constant threat of Pucci—or whoever else—waiting to kill you just for working for Dio. He had done nothing to convince you it was not him, and knowing that on top of it all, he did not even care if they succeeded had been the final nail in the coffin. Being here, being around him, was unbearable. 

Throwing in more miscellaneous items you would need just until you could come back during the day to pack up the rest, you hoisted the trash bag over your shoulder and returned to the house, Dio nowhere to be found. Holding your head high, you pushed through the front door and hurried to your car, throwing the bag in the back seat and slamming the door. Once you had got in and fastened your seatbelt, you took a deep breath, sparing a look back toward the window you knew belonged to Diego’s empty room.

I’m sorry.

You may not have been able to say goodbye, but at the very least you could warn him. Sending him a quick message, you sighed.

Stay away from Pucci. Don’t trust him, don’t tell him anything, and keep to yourself. Be careful, Diego. 

Then you messaged Gyro.

I’m going to be hard to reach for a while. Don’t worry about me.

Taking another deep breath, you sent a message to one more person.

Joseph. I’m going to be missing training for a bit. I need to get out of here.

You threw the phone to the passenger’s seat and started the car, speeding down the driveway and narrowly passing a car headed toward the house driven by a vaguely familiar blonde man with a cigarette in his mouth and Enya in the passenger’s seat. From the corner of her eye you caught her gawping at you, leaning forward and turning her head to watch you drive off and you shuddered, grateful that you would not be seeing her again.

Joseph, it seemed, had read your message first, calling you twice before sending you a text. Taking a split second to read it, all it contained was an address in Palos Verdes, right by Caesar and Gyro’s house. 

Once you had gotten on the road, you began weighing your options. The studio in Los Feliz was off limits; minions aside, Dio or his lackeys would check there once they realized you were gone. Your parents were equally out of the question, being there would put them in danger too. Mentally checking off a list of practically everyone you had ever met that could give you a place to stay, you found yourself all too quickly out of options and looked to the back seat. It was roomy enough, and you knew some parking lots where you could sleep undisturbed by cops. A gym membership would not be too hard to get, there you could at least shower and take care of yourself. It also afforded you the ability to never stay in one place for too long.

The car was the best option.

But for now, you needed to tell someone. Someone who would not have a personal stake like Gyro, or was too close to Dio like Diego was. Someone who could at least be able to look into it.

With a brittle sigh, you copied the address Joseph had sent you into Waze and headed to the freeway, your mind racing and a curious pain in your chest. Every single moment you had spent with Dio sped past like the cars outside your window, and your heart sank at every one that had been kind. In all of those moments, you had found yourself enjoying his company and wishing things had stayed like that forever; that he had stayed like that forever.

Would things have been different? Would you be charging across Los Angeles, fresh out of a job with nowhere to go, just to get away from him and all the horror that he kept himself surrounded by? Would it have been more than—what even had happened between you? How could that be classified? It had almost felt like a breakup, in a way. Like leaving a very toxic ex that happened to be immortal and apparently wanted you dead. 

I didn’t even like him!

Thinking back to the beginning, you frowned.

Maybe at first, I might have a little bit. For like, ten seconds. But what does that matter now? Look where it got me.

Your phone went off; Diego was calling. Caught up in a sea of what-ifs and what-could-have-been-s, you let it go to voicemail, evading the calls from both Diego and Gyro as they began to come in. Even as the familiar green scape of Palos Verdes loomed into view around you, your mind kept straying back to Dio and the smile he had given you before you left. By the time you had pulled up to the address and found it to be a quaint contemporary ranch house with white ship lap walls and mahogany double doors, you had more questions than answers. Your nerves had been shot, and you could not help but sit in the car for a minute and cry, looking up only when you had heard the sound of a door closing and saw Joseph step off the porch, Shizuka’s head poking out from the doorway.

Chapter Text

Surreal. That was a fitting descriptor.

Sitting in a cozy living room bathed in white and decorated with an eclectic mix of midcentury modern and old, genuine vintage furniture while filling Joseph in on everything that had transpired, sneaking glances at the framed photos of his family that cluttered every decorative surface and had been plastered on most of the walls, felt nothing short of surreal. It had felt like a thousand eyes were watching, a thousand ears listening, silently passing judgment or laughing at your misery. The stern countenance of Jotaro glowering in a cap and gown right beside you in particular added an uncanny aura of realism to it all; from the scarce few times you had met him, that had seemed to be his default emotional state. Had he been in the room, you were entirely sure he would have been making the same face, a “good grief” while he pulled the brim of his hat over his eyes thrown in for good measure. Under the photo’s withering stare, you shrank back a little in your seat. 

Pensive, Joseph stroked his beard, one eyebrow raised as he mulled everything over. Seeing him in a state of anything other than childlike glee in and of itself was always a bit unnerving; given the severity of the situation, it left you outright afraid.

“You think this priest guy, Pucci, is out to kill you?”

“Or he at least is letting it happen. But I can’t shake the feeling that he’s part of it.”

“Well,” he said, resolute. “We can find out.”

Joseph stood and walked over to the television mounted to the wall. A determined look rested on his face and he took hold of each side of the screen. The air pressure shifted, just enough to where it was clear something was amiss. On its own, the television switched on, flipping through the channels at an unnervingly high speed. Bewildered, you sat transfixed, leaning forward on the couch and watching it all unfold. It kept going, a demented merry-go-round of clips that had sent you near reeling from motion sickness. Garbled speech spliced itself together in a disjointed string of voices, hissing out one name:

“En…ya…ba…”

The whirl of color settled abruptly on static and Joseph gave a start, looking around in alarm.

“Wait—what?”

A sinking feeling took hold, and you knew instantly that whatever Joseph was doing, this was not normally a result. The static faded to darkness, a silhouetted figure holding a ghoulish mask that seemed to glow in the shadows. Its features were distinctly masculine, with sharply carved eyes perforated by the black and a prominent ridge that extended from its nose to its forehead. Resting beneath the ridge was a mouth curved into a slight smile, the distinct shape of fangs etched into the bottom lip.

A laugh issued from the screen, rich and sinister and painfully familiar. 

No.

“Joseph Joestar.” Dio had sounded nothing short of menacing, turning toward the screen, enshrouded in night. Wagging a disapproving finger, he tutted softly under his breath. “You’re watching me, aren’t you?”

“Dio?”

Cracks formed across the screen, a discordant hum steadily rising to a crescendo as the cracks inched closer to Dio’s silhouette.

“Oh, and I see you have a friend with you. Hello, little pet.”

Even in the darkness, you could make out his smile, and it left you cold.

The cracks met in the center, the hum pounding down on your ears; hastily, you clamped your hands over them to drown it out, squeezing your eyes shut. A loud pop crashed through the living room followed by falling glass; it was as if you had been standing in the center of two dozen lightbulbs breaking. Opening your eyes, you were met with the sight of the television completely shattered, a large hole where Dio’s face had been moments before.

Joseph cursed loudly. 

“Dad,” two voices groaned from across the hall. Although muffled, they distinctly belonged to Johnny and Shizuka. 

“Did you break another TV?” Shizuka shouted.

“We just bought that one,” Johnny chimed in. “What the hell?”

“S—Sorry, kids!” Joseph called over his shoulder; despite the severity of the situation, he had the decency to sound embarrassed enough to lighten the situation for the sake of his children.

“Jesus Christ,” muttered Johnny, loud and pointed enough to ensure Joseph did not miss it.

Joseph turned to you, his face pale.

“Well, we know two things. One, Pucci may be part of it but he isn’t the one planning it. That’s Enya Geil. Two, he has it. He has a Stone Mask.”

It had all happened so fast that you had nearly forgotten about the mask in Dio’s hand. The gravity of what that had meant prompted your mouth to fall open, nonplussed by the discovery.

“That’s the Stone Mask?”

“It is,” confirmed Joseph, morose. “Which means he’s sending whoever had found it to find the Red Stone of Aja next. The Speedwagon Foundation has been looking for it in Switzerland, but they haven’t had any luck.”

Stern, he crossed his arms. “You wouldn’t know who he had Enya Geil send to go look for it, would you?”

“No,” you replied, running through a list of every mook you had seen in Dio’s company. Landing on the blonde man in the car with Enya, you frowned, concentration knotting your brow at the center. “Well, maybe. I forgot his name. Blonde guy, cigarette perpetually lodged in his mouth, stupid cowboy hat? Something dumb, I—Hol Horse! I met him like, once. I saw him driving to the house with Enyaba in the car as I was leaving. You think he might have went to find it?”

“Maybe,” Joseph said after a moment, lost in thought. “But I doubt he was working alone.”

From the hallway, a set of footsteps mixed with the soft swish of rubber against wood caught your attention. Looking toward the sound, you were met with the stares of Johnny and Shizuka; the latter in glasses and a matching set of pastel pink pajamas with her hair thrown into a messy bun, and the former in a thin white t-shirt and dark blue sweats, his hair half up and a clearly annoyed expression on his face.

“Shizuka, take this damn ponytail out of my hair,” he grumbled, glaring up at her once he had realized you were there. “Just because I can’t run, that doesn’t mean you can play with me like a Barbie doll. I’m a grown man.”

“Aww,” she poured, looking down at him and unwinding the hair tie from his pale blonde locks. “But you look so cute, Jojo!”

“And stop calling me that!”

Johnny fixed his eyes on you, his clear blue gaze piercing. 

“You should check your phone. I think Gyro’s went into a full-blown panic.”

That makes two of us.

The two went to inspect the television, both wearing cross expressions as they looked to Joseph with a stern eye. Provided with the opportunity to take Johnny’s advice as they lectured their father—“really, Dad, that’s like the fourth TV we’ve bought since November,” Shizuka groaned, Johnny shaking his head ruefully as he mumbled about liking that model—you did a double take as you scrolled through your notifications.

Diego had called you three times, sending a solid ten texts. Gyro had doubled that easily, his most recent message from a mere five minutes before. Above them all was a single message from Dio, timestamped three minutes ago.

Interesting choice of company. Doubly so, considering that the guest house seems to have been ransacked. Can it be that you’re on the run, little pet? You didn’t go very far to hide.

Heart racing, you sent him a short reply before blocking his number and all of his socials: Adapt or die, remember?

Then, guilt prickling at your skin, you read the messages from Diego. Spaced out over the hour that had passed since you had texted him, they had went from casual to panicked, the last outright wondering if your text had been a goodbye. At that, you had felt nothing short of heartbroken, remembering how he had told you about his family and the life he had led before Dio. It felt wrong to leave him without answers.

You opted to make it as light as possible, hoping to at least make him laugh amidst all of the chaos.

Remember that one time when you said “shit was about to hit the fan”? Well, Dio has the Stone Mask, Pucci might have been involved with the Wang Chan thing, and Dio basically said he’s going sit back and let me die. I left to make sure that exact thing doesn’t happen, and I came to talk to Joseph and DIO SAW ME THROUGH THE FUCKING TV AT HIS HOUSE, DIEGO, SHIT HIT THE FAN.

Diego had replied so fast that it surprised you, a mirthless chuckle leaving you when you had read it.

I WAS GONE FOR THREE HOURS HOW DID ALL OF THAT FUCKING HAPPEN

He had begun typing another when you had checked your messages from Gyro, your heart sinking further. If Diego had been concerned, Gyro had been in a state of total panic; at one point he had even mentioned messaging Diego on Instagram to ask if he had heard from you or knew where you were.

That response felt harder to type out.

I’m at Joseph’s. I don’t plan on staying . It’s a long story.

Gyro did not respond, and when you had looked to see if Diego had still been typing, the icon had disappeared. 

Barely ten minutes had passed, the three Joestars sat on the couch still discussing the broken television, before a forceful knock on the door startled the four of you and sent you into tense silence. Leaping to your feet, phone still in hand, you looked over to Joseph. He quietly shook his head, his alarm giving way to befuddlement.

“It’s not Dio. I’d know,” he said reassuringly, tapping the spot where his birthmark rested beneath his shirt. “But still, be ready.”

With great trepidation, he crept to the door, his footsteps unusually silent given his size. Peeking through the door viewer with one eye, a relieved smile stretched across his face and he pulled the door open. There was little time to process what had happened. One moment, you were standing by the door; the next, you were being smothered by a blur of waist-length blonde hair, two arms trapping you in a tight hold, your face shoved into a man’s chest with no warning.

“Bambina,” Gyro said in your ear. “What the fuck? You scared the shit out of me.”

The question itself held no enmity, nor did his voice. More than anything, Gyro sounded relieved, strengthening his grip.

“You’re suffocating me, Gyro,” you huffed out, squirming in his grip.

Gyro scoffed lightly; you could picture his smile. “Deal with it.”

“You missed it, Gyro,” Johnny said dryly. “My dad broke another TV.”

His grip on you lessened. “Really?”

“And apparently Dio possessed it.”

You could feel Gyro’s entire body language shift, tension rippling through skin and sinew, the sensation a receding tide before a tsunami.

“How,” he said slowly, “did Dio possess the TV?”

“We were finding out ourselves before you burst through the door like the Kool-Aid Man,” Johnny answered. “Let your girl breathe and sit down, my dad will tell you.”

Gently, he let you go, his expression bleak as Joseph gave them all a quick summary. Diego messaged you midway through; deciding it was best not to relive everything yet again, you opened it.

Adapt or die, indeed.

The message left you cold; it was not Diego at all. Hitting the call button immediately, you brought the phone to your ear. Dio answered almost instantly, and you were greeted by thunderous silence on the other end waiting for you to speak.

“Where is Diego?” The question left you in a hiss, rage and fear roiling in the pit of your stomach. Like writhing vipers, it slithered and contorted as it spread, constricting your throat and clenching down your teeth. The hand that held the phone to your ear shook; the other was balled into a fist, your nails digging into the meat of your palm.

“At home,” Dio answered simply. “I merely borrowed his phone, since our conversation was cut short.”

“Dio,” you said in a low voice, every ounce of your being keeping your voice steady. “If you hurt him—”

“—You’ll what? Stuff another garbage bag with clothes and cry on Joseph’s couch? How terrifying.”

A small laugh left him, low and dangerous at your ear. “Don’t worry, Diego is safe, for now. I would be more worried about yourself, if I were you.”

“Why?”

“Come outside, alone.”

The line went dead.

Setting the phone down, you became aware of the heavy silence in the room and looked up. Johnny, Shizuka, Gyro and Joseph were all watching you.

“He’s here,” Joseph said quietly, looking at the door. 

“He’s here,” you echoed. Joseph and Gyro stood, Johnny readying himself in his wheelchair and putting a hand on Shizuka’s shoulder when she tried to stand. 

“Stay here,” he murmured. “Call Caesar.”

“He wants me to go alone.”

“No,” Gyro protested immediately. “What if he—”

“—Gyro.” Firmly interrupting him, you put a hand up to stop him. “I shouldn’t have even come here. It’s my fault he’s here now. All of you need to stay.”

Taking a deep breath, you focused on the rage, letting it drown out all else as you turned to the door.

“If anything happens to me, though,” you said over your shoulder, pausing. “Whenever you guys kill him, make it hurt.”

You found him waiting near a particularly tall tree, his figure dappled in the horizontal light cast from the blinds over the living room window. He appeared almost mournful, the vitriol he had thrown at you for weeks frighteningly absent. At the sight of you, he stepped forward, immersed in shadow before emerging into the full light glowing from the porch. Holding your ground as he grew closer, you took a deep breath, desperate to quell the panicked beat of your heart.

Just get it over with.

“Why are you here?”

“To give you this,” Dio replied evenly, holding out his palm. In it was the broken head of a golden arrow similar to the one you had pierced him with months ago, the beetle motif swapped out by simple carved inlays. “You know what this is, I assume?”

“The Stand Arrow,” you replied with a slow nod. “Yeah.”

“Do you remember the night I told you to seek out Joseph for training, how I had an arrowhead in my hand? It pointed to you that night.”

Uncomprehending, you watched him silently, folding your arms across your chest. Taking your silence as a cue to continue, Dio spoke carefully, each word measured and curiously withholding in their cadence.

“I’ve learned something. People who are able to channel Hamon are naturally predisposed to developing a Stand of their own, and the Arrow seeks out those who can benefit from its gifts. Which means, since it pointed to you, that the Arrow had sought you out.”

Dio extended his hand to you, his features smoothed over with calm detachment.

“Take it,” he said softly. “You may as well give yourself a fighting chance.”

Hesitantly, you reached out, the faintest sense of suspicion rousing itself from its slumber as your hand neared his. It was too out of character, too left field for Dio to hunt you down only to help you. Had he not been bragging about letting you die merely an hour or two before you had come here? Was he not the reason you had finally left? Why now, what was he doing? None of it made sense; then again, so rarely did it when it came to Dio. 

You let your hand drop, eyeing him shrewdly as his face almost imperceptibly fell. 

“Why are you doing this?”

Frustration crept in, clear as the night sky he stood below, sharpening his eyes and pulling back his lips.

“I’m not one for sentimentality, but why don’t we say it’s because I’m somewhat fond of you?”

The idea that he could be fond of anyone, let alone you, struck you as laughable. Fond of torturing you, perhaps, but never fond of you.

“Bullshit. You used me the entire time.”

That near ever-present smirk he wore like a medal split through his frustration, his light laugh hovering low over the spring air.

“Of course I did,” he agreed. “You were useful. But two things can be true at once, little pet. I can use you and be fond of you.”

His eyes flicked over to the window, hate deepening their vermilion hue. “I suppose you should ask Gyro what I mean, he’ll understand.”

“Right,” you mumbled, remembering the argument in the parking lot. “Because he’s just waiting for better company. I forgot.”

Dio watched you in silence, eyes narrowed as he put a hand on his hip.

“Did it never occur to you how strange it was that within twenty-four hours of being tasked with staking you out, he had already asked Diego for your number? How within a week of meeting him, you were in his bed? And now here you are. None of that ever struck you as far too serendipitous?”

He did not wait for you to answer, closing the distance and gently taking your hand in his. Opening your palm and placing the Arrow inside, he held it for just a moment too long before closing your fingers over it, his touch leaving you in a gentle caress. 

“You make far too many rash decisions,” he said finally. “And there are people far less transparent than myself who will take advantage of that. Be on your guard, and trust no one. Even them.”

His stare lingered on your face, faintly troubled. “How is it that I still find myself in the role of the knight in shining armor?”

With a bitter sigh, he turned his back, heading down the driveway. Stymied by the interaction, you watched him go, the Arrow a painful weight in your grasp. It resembled everything you hated and admired about Dio, the confusing duality of his heart in your hand.

“Thank you,” you called, and Dio stopped in his tracks. “And I’m sorry.”

There was a shift in his posture, ever so slight and altogether uncharacteristic, his shoulders imperceptibly slumping forward as he gave a tiny shake of his head.

“Apology accepted,” he said faintly. “But unnecessarily given. You made your choice. I’ve come to terms with it.”

In a blink he was gone, and you stared at the spot where he had stood until your vision blurred, clutching the broken Arrow in your hand. 

Chapter Text

The only life that had bore witness to your exchange lay in the towering trees around you, their branches swaying in the gentle night breeze. From the canopy of one, the shape of a bird shot out, taking flight in the direction Dio had stood only moments before. Monstrous in size, it dominated the sky, its wings unfurling black against the faint sliver of the low-hanging moon.

In your palm, the Arrow burned.

“None of that ever struck you as far too serendipitous?”

The words replayed in your head like a broken record; a seed of doubt sown in the back of your mind. Writing it off as yet another manipulation tactic was easy. It aligned with everything you knew about him as a person, his personality and character, yet there was something almost earnest in the way he had said it. On his tongue it was both a mind game and an appeal to reason, and you could not for the life of you let it go.

“None of that ever struck you as far too serendipitous?”

A faint creak of metal turning against wood snapped you out of your stupor, the lumbering footsteps of Joseph slowly headed toward you. Sparing him little more than a passing glance, it was evident that he was on guard; he stood ram-rod straight, his eyes scanning the yard through narrowed lids.

“He’s gone?” 

“Yup,” you answered, still somewhat dazed.

“That went…better than I had expected,” Joseph said quietly, watching you from the corner of his eye. He relaxed slightly, tilting his head. “I was expecting a fight.”

“So was I.”

“Caesar should be here any minute. Gyro called him.”

“Great,” you sighed. “We can go over all the crazy shit that’s happening because of Dio for, what, the third time tonight?”

Joseph chuckled, clapping a firm hand on your shoulder.

“Fun, isn’t it? Try doing it for eighty years, you learn all the right moments to pause for dramatic effect. Come on, let’s head in.”

“None of that ever struck you as far too serendipitous?”

Walking slowly to the porch, the Arrow still gripped firmly in your palm, you glanced back at where he had stood. There was a part of you, an infinitesimally small part of you, that wanted him to pop right back out of the darkness and explain what he meant. The accusation that Gyro—of all people, Gyro—had used you for his own gain just as Dio had chafed at you, gnawing at your conscience with sharp canines and drawing blood.

Damn him.

Sneaking one more glance over your shoulder, you slipped the Arrow into your jacket pocket and followed Joseph inside. Johnny and Gyro were locked in conversation, their voices quiet yet heated. Neither bothered to look up when Joseph had brought you back in, though the conversation seamlessly changed from heated to an innocuous discussion about newer television models to replace the one that had broken, the faint sizzling hum from the shattered screen a wordless participant in the topic. Shizuka had vanished, and from her room you could hear music playing faintly behind the door.

“Where’s your sister?” Joseph asked, and Johnny pointed to it, his expression clearly one that showed he thought the answer was obvious.

Barely ten minutes had passed before Caesar walked in the door, Gyro and Johnny finally looking up from their spot across the couch and falling silent. His youthful appearance betrayed him; eyes weary and stooped over, he looked every bit as old as he was, rubbing at his temples with two fingers.

“All right,” he sighed. “What happened?”

The four men gave you a long look, and Joseph spoke for you as you sank to the couch. As he neared the end, Caesar shook his head.

“Where do you plan to go?”

“Haven’t thought about anywhere concrete. I figured I’d just crash in my car for the time being and move around, never stay in one place too long. You know?”

“No,” Gyro and Joseph said instantly, Joseph emphatically shaking his head.

“By yourself you’re an easy target. You’re better off with other Stand users, especially since we know about Enya Geil and Pucci. You can stay here, we have plenty of rooms.”

“Shizuka can finally stop bitching about being the only girl,” Johnny quipped. “And she can stop messing with my hair.”

“You can stay with us, too” Gyro added, pointing to himself and Caesar. 

“I can’t,” you said quickly, Dio’s words still fresh in your mind. “Especially with you, Gyro. I can’t risk that. They’d look there first and I doubt Dio would stop them.”

“So let them,” Gyro said impatiently. “At least I’d know you were safe. I already told you, bambina, I don’t care.”

“We both know he already might have it out for you, though.”

Caesar quirked up an eyebrow and Gyro’s protest died on his tongue, paling under his ancestor’s gaze. Johnny glanced between the two, realization bright azure in his eyes, a small grimace tugging at the corner of his mouth. Beside you, Joseph shifted uncomfortably.

Shit, I forgot Caesar doesn’t know.

“Gyro,” he said delicately. “Why does Dio have a vendetta against you?”

“I might have taken something from him,” Gyro said delicately, fiddling with a snag in the coffee table, his eyes not once leaving yours. “Didn’t I, bambina?”

“Yeah.” Under his gaze you faltered, sinking lower into the couch. “You might have.”

“What did you—oh,” Caesar’s eyes shot toward you, a knowing glint sharpening their stare.

“Gyro.” Though spoken softly his whisper was a reprimand, and Gyro flinched at the word. “Mio caro pronipote, per favore dimmi che non l'hai fatto.”

“Scusa, Nonno,” Gyro said with a pained grin. “Non ho potuto farne a meno.”

Caesar’s eyes were two shards of blistering ice, staring deep into Gyro’s soul as if to will it into showing itself long enough for him to tear it to shreds with his bare hands. It lasted only a moment; within seconds he switched into a demeanor that was unflinchingly charming, smoothing out the crease of his frown and appearing almost youthful when he turned to her and gave her an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry, signorina,” he placed a firm hand on Gyro’s shoulder and he looked to the ceiling, clearly saying a quick prayer to God to appeal to Caesar for mercy. “Joseph, Johnny, I have to speak to my great-grandson. Please, excuse us for a moment.”

“You’re in deep shit,” Johnny said to Gyro quietly as the two stood, Caesar walking over to the sliding glass door and stepping out into the backyard. Gyro’s gaze fell on you, a wide grin on his face.

“Worth it,” he said with a wink, following Caesar out.

Muted and indecipherable, Gyro and Caesar began to argue on the patio. All three of you sat in complete quiet, straining to hear the two. Slowly, Johnny pushed himself toward the drawn back curtain that covered the glass door, pressing his ear to its surface, eyebrows raised.

“Shit,” he muttered, “they’re speaking Italian. Dad, don’t you understand Italian?”

“‘Course I do,” Joseph grinned. “Though I can’t promise I can understand it perfectly.”

“Are you gonna help me eavesdrop or not?” Johnny shot at Joseph under his breath. “I don’t know what the hell they’re saying.”

“He’s a good kid, Gyro,” Joseph turned to you, still grinning. “Don’t take anything Caesar might say personally. He doesn’t have anything against you, he’s just very protective over his family.”

He stood, quietly creeping over to his son and pressing his ear to the glass, his face screwed up in an expression of severe concentration.

“He’s asking when it happened,” Joseph said after a moment. “Gyro’s telling him.”

Caesar’s voice came through garbled, his displeasure evident in the flurried rush of his tone.

“Now Caesar’s asking why he thought it was a good idea.”

Gyro was defiant, a bravado that almost felt forced underscoring his reply.

“He said he knew it was a bad idea, but it’s not like they were together. Who’s they?”

“Her and Dio,” Johnny answered for you, almost bored, and Joseph looked mildly horrified.

“Oh my God,” he whispered. “Dio? Really?”

“I’m not proud of it,” you muttered. “It was before I knew everything.”

“Can’t fault you, then,” Joseph shrugged. “Dio does have a terrifying amount of charisma.”

Johnny looked up at him, eyebrows raised, quiet disgust and astonishment clouding his stare and stretching his mouth into a grimace. “What the fuck, Dad?”

“What? He does,” Joseph countered. “I don’t want her to feel bad.”

“Whatever,” he shook his head, affecting a shudder. “Keep translating.”

Pressing his ear further into the glass, both hands splayed across its surface, Joseph’s features took on a hawkish quality. Hunched slightly forward, he vaguely resembled a gecko climbing on a wall and you bit back a laugh, huffing air through your nose and tamping down the thought to focus on Joseph’s blow-by-blow.

“He said ‘maybe not in her eyes. But in Dio’s, she was his. You were both incredibly careless, now we all stand to lose our lives because of it’. He put the emphasis on his, by the way. Makes sense why you two have been keeping things under wraps.”

Gyro sounded defeated, and from the couch you could see his composure waver, his hands tossed up in surrender.

“He says he likes you,” Joseph said, looking at you with a tiny smile.

All you could think of was Dio’s voice.

“None of that ever struck you as far too serendipitous?”

On the patio Caesar softened, laying a consoling arm over Gyro’s shoulder and murmuring to him in a more gentle tone.

“Now Caesar’s saying he knew Gyro liked you, but he can’t. It’s too dangerous. He doesn’t want you or Gyro to get killed.”

Gyro’s voice raised, exasperation high in its cadence, and Joseph paused.

“He said—‘well, we’re already in too deep. Can’t take it back now’. Caesar’s saying he’s right, but he could think with the head on his shoulders for once.”

Gyro began gesticulating wildly on the patio, his hands fluttering under Caesar’s hold.

“Okay, now Gyro said ‘what if we just kill him? Or I’ll take her to Napoli with me, and I can hide her somewhere’?”

Caesar interrupted him, his voice sympathetic and clear, and Gyro shook his head, burying his face in his hands. Caesar rubbed his back in consolation, his expression gentle as he brought Gyro in for a hug. Joseph sighed, a long and weary rattle that shook his shoulders and lumbered back to the couch. Beckoning Johnny away from the door, he stared at them for a long moment.

“Not much else to eavesdrop on, son. Might as well get away from there before they catch you.”

“What did he even say?”

“I don’t know,” Joseph answered, his eyes clearly saying otherwise. “I couldn’t understand him.”

Rolling his eyes, Johnny pushed himself to the kitchen and opened the fridge, the sound of bottles clinking together like broken chimes in the quiet. Leaning over, Joseph dropped his voice to a whisper.

“Caesar asked why he was so intent on protecting you. Gyro said it’s because he’s in love with you.”

Your stomach dropped and you stared at Gyro’s back, your heart a wobbling thrum at your sternum. The severity of the word throttled you, rattling through your eardrums and down your neck, the word like a blow to the head. 

Love?

Joseph was looking at you, gleeful and expectant, eyes shining mischievous emerald. Smiling back as sincerely as you could muster without it looking forced, you crossed your arms over your stomach and looked back toward Gyro.

In another life, you would have been happy. A life blissfully absent of Stands, Arrows, vampires and Dio; a life where you were still a bartender in a shitty studio apartment, where a handsome doctor living in the ritziest part of the southernmost tip of the Santa Monica Bay sweeping you off your feet would be little more than a daydream. There, you would giddily text friends about how you had found someone good, someone you could see yourself growing old with, someone with a dorky laugh that liked puns and made way too many dad jokes for being a childless man under thirty. 

In this one, the revelation hit you like falling bricks, forcing the air from your lungs as you reeled under its weight. Running an absent hand over the scar on your forearm, you watched as Gyro composed himself, nodding at Caesar and heading back in. His eyes weary, he glanced over to Johnny and grinned when covertly showed him the bottles of Red Trolley he had smuggled under his sweatshirt from the fridge, careful not to disturb the can of coke he held in his hand.

It had barely been three months, how could any of this be love?

“None of that ever struck you as far too serendipitous?”

Smiling at him, the weight of the Arrow in your pocket, you felt sick.

Perhaps it was all too serendipitous.

“So,” Caesar said briskly, closing the door behind him. “Back to the task at hand. Signorina, you can’t stay in your car. That’s too unsafe, and it puts you at risk. Like Joseph said, you have no Stand. Your Hamon isn’t developed enough yet to hold your own against Dio, either. Both of our homes are open to you, it’s best you stay in one of them.”

“I could stay here tonight,” you said after a moment. “Dio already knows I’m here and didn’t make a move, that’s a good thing, right?”

“I’ll stay here, too,” Gyro added, and Caesar’s composure faltered for one brief second. Worry creased the corners of his mouth and darkened his eyes, and he looked over to Joseph.

“We could all stay here, then. If Dio or his lackeys try anything tonight, then we would all be in one place, at least.”

You half expected the man to bristle at the imposition, like any sane person would; instead Joseph beamed, as giddy as a twelve year old hosting their first sleepover.

“I’ll get everyone’s bedrooms set up! You can take the first bedroom on the right, Caesar can take the bedroom across from mine. Wait—Gyro, would you be okay rooming with Caesar? We only have two bedrooms open right now.”

“Gyro can crash in my room,” Johnny piped up.

Gyro nodded in agreement, a conspiratorial grin splitting over his mouth once Joseph rose from the couch, Caesar following him. Once they were out of earshot, Gyro pointed to Johnny’s sweater.

“How many of those do you have?” 

“Enough,” Johnny answered with a sly smile. “I would’ve preferred whiskey, but my dad keeps that under lock and key.”

Gyro motioned to you, wordlessly conveying to follow him as he began meandering toward the hall.

“Lead the way, Johnny.”

“Why? You’ve been here a hundred times.”

“It’s a figure of speech. Let’s go.”

Following Johnny and Gyro, you were led to a room that was sparsely decorated, a knitted blanket resembling a sky dotted with clouds draped over the full sized bed, its frame placed slightly lower to the ground and a stack of boxes beside it. Johnny brought himself parallel to it, locking his wheelchair and handing Gyro several bottles before pushing himself upward with his hands on the armrests. In one quick movement, he hoisted himself onto the bed and reached toward Gyro for a bottle. Fishing around in the front pocket of his sweater, he produced a bottle opener.

“Hand her one, too,” Johnny said as an afterthought, popping the cap off his bottle and taking a swig. “She needs one.”

Gyro took the bottle opener from Johnny and took off the cap of one bottle with a flourish, handing it to you with a small smile.

“We all need one, I think.”

Pointing to the boxes, you looked over to Johnny. “What are those?”

He looked to where you had pointed and frowned, chewing on his nail.

“Oh, that’s all my stuff. I’m moving in. Joseph thought it would be better for me to live here since your ex-boyfriend is crazier than a shithouse rat and decided to become an omnicidal maniac hellbent on enslaving humanity.”

“He’s not my ex,” you muttered, your cheeks growing hot and guilt turning the beer on your tongue sour. “We weren’t dating.”

“Does he know that?” Taking another drink, Johnny looked you dead in the eye, a silent hostility dwelling in them. “Because you’ve gotta be the dumbest woman alive if you can’t see that he’s in love with you.”

“Johnny,” Gyro said sharply, giving him a disapproving glare. “This isn’t the best conversation to have right now.”

“No, it is.” Holding your gaze, he tilted the neck of the bottle in your direction. “Look, no disrespect and all, you seem nice enough and I’m glad you helped me out in that basement. But I could’ve stayed in Kentucky and not had to deal with any of this shit. Now I gotta live with Joseph, who I barely fucking know, and on top of it I’ve gotta help fight Dio even though I’m in a goddamn wheelchair. And I’m pretty sure if y’all didn’t fuck—” he pointed between you and Gyro “—a lot of this could have been avoided. You already were able to talk him out of killing us, and that was because he thought he had a shot.”

“Johnny.” Gyro looked exhausted; it was obvious that this was not the first time they had talked about this. “Dio would have came after all of us either way, even if we had never got together.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Johnny shot back, brooding. “But it wouldn’t have been like this.”

Floored, you remained where you stood, nervously turning the bottle in your hands. Johnny had never really given any indication that he was ever fond of you, but you had never expected him to resent you for everything, let alone blame you. It stung, but you found it difficult to not empathize. Were the tables turned, you would have been just as angry.

In a way, you were just as angry. Dio had upended your life as much as he had anyone else’s, the only difference being that there had not been a one-hundred-and-thirty year old blood grudge between him and your entire family. And while you had shouldered no small amount of guilt in how your choices had impacted Diego, Gyro, even Joseph and Caesar—it had never occurred to you that the repercussions extended into the lives of people like Johnny, or Jotaro, or Shizuka.

Not for the first time, you found yourself wishing you had never met any of these people.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice faltered, and you could not hold Johnny’s stare.

“Don’t be,” Johnny muttered, taking another long drink. “I’m more mad at Gyro than I am at you. Easier to forgive someone you know isn’t all that bright than it is to forgive someone who is and knew better.”

Gyro said something under his breath in furious Italian, glaring up at the ceiling. He looked pissed, angrier than you had ever seen him. It did not suit him, serving to make him almost intimidating.

“You sound like Caesar.”

“You should’ve listened to Caesar. He was right.”

Falling quiet as the two began to argue, you looked down at your phone and opened your messages.

Is this still Dio? Or is this Diego?

The reply was immediate and telling.

WHAT IN GOD’S NAME WERE YOU PLAYING AT, WOMAN? BLOCKING DIO, OF ALL PEOPLE, KNOWING THAT WOULD JUST MAKE HIM MORE ANGRY? YOU’RE LUCKY I HAVEN’T GOT A LICENSE YET, BECAUSE I WOULD BE HALFWAY TO PALOS VERDES BY NOW TO KILL YOU. DO YOU KNOW WHAT I’VE HAD TO PUT UP WITH TONIGHT?

Ah, you typed, holding back a smile. Diego. Sorry about that. I’m stuck listening to Gyro and Johnny argue in Johnny’s bedroom right now, and honestly? I kind of wish someone did kill me, this is so awkward to sit through. 

His next message was decidedly less antagonistic, curious and void of full capitalization.

Why are they arguing?

Stifling a bitter sigh as you typed, you took a deep drink from your beer.

Johnny’s convinced Dio’s in love with me, I guess.

The typing icon blinked intermittently on the screen for a solid minute before Diego finally replied.

…I’ll be honest, I thought that too at first. Can’t blame him for thinking that from an outside perspective, even if it’s laughably wrong.

Staring at the message with a frown, you glanced up at Gyro and Johnny, still arguing; it dawned on you that this was the heated discussion you had returned to when you had walked back inside. 

Dude, they’re still arguing. This is so uncomfortable, I kind of want to just leave.

So leave? Did you forget that you’re a grown woman? Say you’re tired and walk out of the room. I swear, you have to be a masochist or something with how often you refuse to simply walk away from uncomfortable situations.

Begrudgingly, you had to admit he had a point, you could just walk out. Mumbling out that you were beat and thanking them for the beer, you slipped out of the room. Neither Gyro nor Johnny seemed to notice you had left, though the argument had begun to wane into more civil conversation. Quietly slipping into the bedroom Joseph had mentioned, avoiding detection by him and Caesar as they watched a movie on the couch, you closed the door as discreetly as manageable and sank to the mattress, electing to leave the lights off.

Lying in bed, sleep did not once come. Wide awake, you stared at the ceiling, switching your attention between your thoughts and TikTok and trying to clear your head. At half past two, the faintest click of a doorknob being turned cut through the dark and you sat up, a lithe shadow silently slipping past the large crack in the door and gingerly shutting it behind them.

“Hey,” Gyro whispered, and he locked the door.

“Hey,” you whispered back, and Gyro moved gently to the bed.

“You doing okay?”

“As okay as I can be,” you mustered up weakly, scratching the back of your neck. Gyro put an arm around you, kissing your cheek.

“Anything I can do?” 

“It’s fine, Gyro. You should go get some sleep.”

In the dark, you could feel the troubled gaze he had fixed you with, perfectly picturing the slight pout of his lips as he studied you.

Taking a deep breath, he leaned back.

“No, something’s wrong. What’s wrong? Is it Johnny? Because I—”

“—It’s not Johnny, don’t worry. It’s a lot of things,” you admitted. “But more than anything I think I get where he’s coming from. I’d be mad too.”

“He could have been nicer about it, though.”

Thinking back to every interaction you had ever had with him, you could not find a single one where he had been anything above sardonic.

Could he? 

“So,” Gyro said after a moment, carefully approaching the subject. “What is it?”

“That night in the cabin,” you began, not meeting Gyro’s eyes. “Why did you ask me out?”

Your stare had begun adjusting to the night, and you could make out more clearly the quizzical expression on Gyro’s face. He blinked, scratching the bridge of his nose.

“Because I wanted to get to know you?”

“Was that the only reason?”

Gyro paused, looking off to the side.

“Where’s all this coming from?”

That’s not an answer.

“Was that the only reason?” Repeating yourself, you searched his features for any unspoken answer.

“You might think less of me,” Gyro said airily, falling to the bed. “But no, it wasn’t. I thought your ass looked real good in those jeans you were wearing, and I wanted to see what was underneath your sweater. For the record, I was not at all disappointed.”

“So,” you spoke slowly, your tone a calculated endeavor toward casual. “You’re not using me for some secret agenda that would give you an advantage over Dio and get you back to Naples quicker?”

A pained look crossed over Gyro’s face and he sat up.

“Where the hell did you get that idea?”

For a moment, you had seized on the way his voice had constricted just too tightly for it to be ignored, his sharp frown suspect in and of itself. It was a silent acknowledgment of culpability, one that manifested itself as a lump in your throat. But then you saw his eyes, wounded and bewildered, clarity winning out through his stare as his expression softened, and a sliver of doubt crackled through your certainty. More gently, he spoke, his features relaxing.

“Is this because of Dio?”

When is it not?

“Yeah,” you muttered. “He said as much outside.”

“I’m a surgeon, not a psychologist, but I’m pretty sure that’s called projecting.”

“Yeah.” Nodding in agreement, you sighed. “You’re right. He’s projecting for sure.”

So why does part of me still believe him?

Gyro leaned back, each hand paced palm-flat on the mattress, his fingers sprawled out. Through the dark his eyes shone bright; he was watching you intently, the soft rise and fall of his chest methodical and calculated. He looked worn, too tired for twenty-eight, wrestling with what he was trying to say.

Oh God, please don’t tell me you love me.

Heart pounding, you swallowed nervously. You had no idea what to say if he did. You weren’t sure you could say it back. Liked him, sure. Care, you could contend with. But love had felt strange on your tongue and fell sour on your ears from the moment Joseph had ratted him out, and after what Johnny had said the topic felt like a land mine now.

Please don’t say it, please don’t say it, please don’t—

“Iulius Caesar Zeppeli,” he said softly, his gaze unflinching. “That’s my real name. Iulius Caesar Zeppeli.”

I take it back, that’s worse. 

As serious as the admission was, you could not help but laugh.

“Iulius Caesar? Like…Julius Caesar? Your name is Julius Caesar?”

Pointing a warning finger at you and showing you his driver’s license as proof, he grew serious.

“I’m only telling you so you don’t doubt that I care about you. I do, bambina. Very much. But if you tell anyone, I will kill you.”

“I’ll take it to my grave,” you replied in mocking solemnity, holding one hand up and placing the other over your heart. “I promise.”

He smiled, bright and scheming in the darkness.

“Everyone’s asleep,” he whispered, the smile on his face slipping into something devious and tucked his wallet back into his pocket. “Have you ever heard of the game ‘silent as the grave’?”

“No,” you replied, bewildered. “What the hell is that?”

Please don’t be something horror related, I’m so tired of dealing with horror.

“It’s fun, trust me,” Gyro assured you, seemingly reading your mind, excitement animating his features. “You’re going to love it. There’s only one rule: no matter what I do, you cannot make a sound, and vice versa. Silent as the grave, bambina. First person to make a noise has to take out the other to dinner.”

His stare grew lecherous and he gently guided you to the mattress, tugging off the sweatpants you wore and drifting a knuckle down the gusset of your underwear. Hooking his thumbs under the fabric and on the sides, he shimmied them down your thighs and tossed them to the floor.

“The game starts,” he whispered, kissing the length of your inner thigh and following it up. Swiping his tongue up your heat to its crux, he smirked. “Now.”

Gyro had lost his little game rather impressively quick; within five minutes, he was whispering in your ear to get on the floor, worried about the sound the mattress would make. As you did you retreated inward, your mind straying toward the Arrow that was still in your jacket pocket and the way Dio had looked down at you, the conflicted expression he wore and the severe line of his mouth. Even as the two of you had stripped down and you had laid your back against the cold wood of the floor, Gyro slotting himself between your hips, the night’s events still swirled around in your head like a whirlpool. When you closed your eyes, you could only see his face; when Gyro took your hand in his, you could feel Dio’s tiny caress as he closed your fingers over the gold in your palm. With every amorous whisper, you heard Dio’s voice inside it, asking yet again if it was all just a bit too serendipitous and hating that you could not shake the thought.

Gyro did not notice, and for that you were grateful. He had either been too distracted, too gullible, or you were a better actress than Dio had been willing to give you credit for.

Once he had finished, dressed, and left, swiftly kissing your cheek and sneaking back into Johnny’s room—a thump, tchotchkes rattling on an end table and a hissed swear in Italian not too far down the hall preceding the sound of a door opening and closing—you gently crawled back into the bed and brought out your phone. Taking a deep breath, staring at his name at the very bottom of your blocked list, you summoned your nerve as you chewed on your thumbnail.

You needed to talk to him.

Biting the bullet, you unblocked his number and sent a brief message, one you prayed could not be read into too deeply.

Are you awake?

To your surprise, he answered rather speedily; you could almost hear the haughtiness in his reply.

Of course I am awake. But this is a rather interesting text message to send this late in the night, isn’t it? Did you forget to pack your little wand? Is Gyro not satisfactory?

“Fucking prick,” you muttered. Of course he seized on the opportunity to mock you.

It’s about the Stand Arrow. Can I come see you tomorrow?

Little white lies never hurt now and then, you decided. In no small part was it about the Arrow, but his earlier appearance had still left you bewildered. It was the fact that he had been so hot and cold, his intentions murky and his behavior even murkier; above all, it was the why. Why was he doing this? Why was he in one breath indiscriminately cruel and in the next, gently encouraging you to save yourself? Why was he convinced Gyro was using you? Why, any of it? 

You did not even want to entertain what Johnny had said as an answer.

Dio had taken longer to respond.

Do you think they would let you? 

That was a good point. 

Were you to leave, you were sure at the very least Joseph or Gyro would insist on accompanying you even if it was to the drive thru at McDonald’s. If you were to suggest meeting with Dio, they would probably fly off the handle at the idea. And, if you were being frank, you did not want them there. This was a conversation you had wanted to have with Dio alone. This felt like a conversation to have with Dio, alone.

I don’t know, honestly. I’d have to find a way around them. I could come by early in the morning, while everyone is sleeping?

It had sounded like a good idea in your head; on the screen, it looked pathetic—a feeling that grew more palpable when a tiny bubble that read “haha” popped up in the top left hand corner of the text.

Did you perhaps fail to consider that I would also, in fact, be sleeping?

Scoffing, you rolled your eyes, mentally counting off every time you had ever walked into Dio’s bedroom during the day and found him wide awake.

No you fucking wouldn’t, don’t lie. We both know you’re going to be reading a book or talking about how godlike you are to whatever new idiot is in your weird cult.

That one, he had reacted to with a heart. Of course he did, you thought to yourself. Smug little shit. 

His response earned another eye roll, and you wondered for a moment if it was too soon or too late to regret messaging him.

You find me to be godlike? I knew you would come around eventually. Be here before sunrise.

Setting the phone down, you took a deep breath. 

Overall, it had went better than you hoped. Half expecting a diatribe or threats, you had not anticipated him to be rather amenable. He had seemed willing enough, and there did not exist in his messages any sort of indication of an ulterior motive. 

Amorphous and unidentifiable, a fragment of a thought took root. Its disjointed form began to knit itself together into faintly amused eyes like amber and scratchy sheets in a tacky basement; it was leather interior at your knees, it was the way your heart had accelerated into the speed of a hummingbird’s wings when he had carried you to the promontory, and it was the feel of the shirt you had stolen from him against your skin.

Maybe, just maybe, Dio did care. In his own demented little way, he might have cared. Not love, like Johnny believed, but a certain fondness. 

Like Dio had said.

You had almost laughed out loud at the thought. Dio caring about anything was incredulous at best, at worst delusional. This was a man that had murdered his own adopted brother because he needed his body, there was no one alive or dead he cared about except himself. Claiming he was fond of you was just him being manipulative. 

But why? What would he gain? 

It was too late to go down that road.

Your screen lit up, shooting piercing blue-white through the dark. Checking your phone, you inhaled sharply and set it back down.

Sleep well. Be careful on your way here.

You did not sleep at all, sitting in bed and waiting for the sky to lighten from pitch black to the deep blue of early morning twilight. Occasionally, your attention drifted back to the message and you would open it, staring at it intently and hating how it twisted your stomach in knots. A sinking feeling settled low in your gut, and you bit down on your lip.

Maybe, just maybe, Johnny might have been onto something.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Just before four in the morning and a scant two hours before sunrise, dressed and with the Arrow in your pocket, you quietly removed the screen on the bedroom window facing the front yard and climbed out, landing on your feet and narrowly missing the rose bush below the windowsill. Trepidation guided your hands as you gently nudged the window shut and guided your feet forward, across the yard and to your car at the end of the driveway. Pausing to take a deep breath, your teeth on edge and your lungs burning, you unlocked the car and slid into the driver’s seat and made your way to Dio’s mansion. The streets mercifully empty, you drove in silence, gripping the steering wheel tightly to ground yourself and steadying your breathing. The idea of returning to the mansion itself was daunting, but your concern lay dwarfed by the threat it posed.

And, to your horror, the unholy fluttering in your chest that sent electric shocks all the way to your teeth as you navigated the streets.

Why am I so nervous? It’s just Dio. 

A hundred reasons flew past like phantom cars in the lanes beside you. Because he’s evil. Because he was casually talking about how he didn’t care if you died right before showing up and giving you a Stand Arrow. Because he is trying to become some weird super vampire and take over the world. Because you can’t figure him out. Because that might not be nerves and instead might be the fact that Johnny got in your head and—

“Nope,” you said to no one, emphatically shaking your head and smacking the steering wheel hard enough to make your palm sting. “No, don’t go down that road.”

But why not? What if Johnny’s right, and you can use that to figure out a way to stop this all from happening?

“No,” you repeated firmly, at war with your own conscience. “Not doing that. It’s fucking Dio. Don’t be an idiot, you already have an extremely confusing relationship you have to deal with.”

Which you got into to get away from dealing with Dio. Remember that mental breakdown you mentioned to Diego? Maybe stop pretending you haven’t been in the midst of it since New Year’s Eve. Because why else would you be driving to his fucking house at four in the morning after everything with some flimsy excuse about a Stand Arrow you’ve barely thought about and don’t even know if you want to use?

“Fucking Christ,” you muttered, settling into the seat with an exasperated groan. “I’m acting like a crazy person.”

You turned on the radio, drowning out your thoughts. It was too early in the morning to jump into a cage match with your own emotions, and you were on too little sleep to win.

A peculiar heaviness intruded the quiet once you got onto the 405, one that steadily grew as the freeway took you through the outskirts of Lawndale. One that felt like a pair of eyes drilling their stare through the back of your head, bolstering a sense of paranoia low in your gut; one that convinced you that you were being watched. Checking in the rearview mirror, you breathed a sigh of relief when you saw that the freeway lay mostly empty, the cars that trailed along the asphalt far too distant to be intrusive, not knowing that if you had checked a mere fifteen seconds before you would have seen the massive falcon that had coasted along the air behind you banking a sharp right and veering northeast toward Silver Lake. 

But you had not, and soon enough you found yourself in Bel Air, turning onto Bellagio Road and toward Dio’s mansion. At the stoplight nearest his house, you sent him a message to let him know you were five minutes out; he responded instantly, letting you know Diego would be letting you in at the gate. Raising an eyebrow, you typed out a short reply.

Why? I have the gate code.

Dio’s answer was blunt: You ran off to the Joestars and have opposed me from the beginning. Forgive me for not trusting you, fondness notwithstanding.

“Why,” you whispered to no one. “Why are you the most infuriating and contradictory motherfucker I have ever met?”

Once you had pulled up to the gate you found Dio waiting instead, dressed to the nines and languidly poised against a modest black sedan with his arms folded over his chest. A faint smile drew the left corner of his mouth upward, vermillion eyes bright as fire in the dark, he appeared almost happy to see you. Worse still, he looked handsome, every bit the charming devil he had been when he had met you; his knowing sneer and mocking eyes gone, you could not stop staring as you put the car in park. The idea that he had intentionally dressed up for you instead of waiting shirtless in bed with a book and a sarcastic quip at the ready—on top of everything else he had done throughout the night—broke something in you, and with a weary sigh you slumped in the seat under the weight of Johnny’s suspicions.

I’m going to fucking murder that little shit. 

“Little pet,” he said softly, extending his arms out and stepping forward as you got out of the car. “You’re back.”

“Just to ask you some questions,” you said guardedly, his smile setting your teeth on edge. “Remember?”

“Of course,” Dio answered, nonchalant. “However, the night is waning, and there are prying eyes and ears everywhere. Shall we go somewhere more private?”

Hesitant, you approached the car, getting a good look at Dio. There was something uncanny about him, something vaguely off; squinting, you looked at him with sharper scrutiny under the scant glow thrown from the street lamps. The smile he wore did not entirely meet his eyes, and the cadence of his speech was just slightly off-step, that ever-present derision that clung to him like poison ivy curiously absent.

I’m overthinking it. Just focus, take a deep breath, and do what you came here to do.

Forcing a smile, you nervously scratched the bridge of your nose.

“Is it safe to?”

“Of course it is. Pucci and Enyaba will not touch you, so long as you are with me. Really, I don’t know why you left at all.”

Inhaling sharply, you froze, staring up at Dio as he approached and put an arm around your shoulders, gently leading you to the car. With a tremulous exhale, you glanced toward the car.

“Do you finally believe me about Pucci?”

“I do,” Dio replied in a low voice, getting closer. “Apologies, little pet. I should have listened to you.”

You opened the car door, halfway into the back seat when the gate rolled open and you found yourself staring at a very shocked Diego.

“What the fuck?” Diego said loudly, his face ghostly white as he sized up Dio. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Impudent little fool,” Dio sneered. “Do you not recognize your own blood?”

“I do,” Diego glowered at him intently, and you tensed under Dio’s grip. “And it’s not you. Let go of her and show me your real face, arsehole.”

“Oh ho,” Dio shoved you back toward the car and rounded on Diego, one hand on his hip as he pointed to him. “Are you challenging me, Diego? I, Dio, never back down from a fight.”

There was no time to process what was unfolding in front of you; a hand shot out from the back seat of the car as you launched toward it, forcefully dragging you in as Dio shut the door. Falling headfirst, you landed in taupe colored linen and the smell of Marlboros, the hand grasping your arm calloused and rough.

“Sorry, darlin’,” a gruff voice with a deep Southern twang drawled from above. “But a job’s a job. It’s nothing personal.”

Righting yourself, you sized up your captor, recognizing him instantly by the stubble dotted across his dimpled chin and the wide brim of his Stetson hat.

“Hol Horse?”

He smiled brightly, a genuine smile that held a lit cigarette tucked between his teeth, rubbing at his chin while his eyes sparkled.

“You remembered my name,” Hol Horse said, mildly impressed. “Gotta say, I’m flattered, since we’ve only met once or twice.”

“I remembered it because it’s fucking stupid,” you spat, and he frowned.

“Well, that ain’t very nice of you,” he pouted.

Looking past you, he tapped on the back of the driver’s seat. Sneaking a quick peek at the figure slouched in it, you could only make out his misshapen shadow; bemused, you could not help but think that what you could see of him greatly resembled Sloth from The Goonies in the dark.

“Roll down her window a crack,” Hol Horse ordered. “I’m gonna tell Rubber Soul to get in the car.”

The window rolled down four inches, and Hol Horse leaned across your lap to reach it.

“Leave him,” he called through the window. “We got what we came for.”

“Fine,” Dio sighed, shaking his shoulders. “Damn, you couldn’t let me have a little fun, first?”

Then he was not Dio at all, and standing in front of the door was a man with long hair that fell in tight curls to his waist. The realization of what had happened fell thick and heavy like smog, cloying the air and choking your lungs as your breathing grew panicked and fretful. Perspiration coated your palms in a thin sheen, your vision tunneling into a sharp vignette while you looked around.

You had walked right into a trap.

“DIEGO,” you screamed; you had to act quickly. “GET DIO AND—”

Hol Horse’s hand clamped over your mouth, Diego sprinting toward the car at the muffled sound of your voice.

“I wouldn’t do that, darlin’,” he said quietly, his voice strangely morose. “I’d never harm a lady, but I can’t say the same for my partner here in the driver’s seat. It’s best to just sit tight and keep quiet.”

You bit down on his hand, hard, the crunch of flesh breaking beneath your teeth awakening your fight. Cursing under his breath, Hol Horse pulled back his hand and cupped the other over the wound, wincing as he brought it to his chest.

“That was my gun hand, woman!”

“Son of a bitch, let me go,” you bellowed, kicking wildly at Hol Horse and the back of the passenger’s seat as the man called Rubber Soul climbed in. 

“I see why he likes you now,” Hol Horse said through clenched teeth, his voice holding within it a small amount of admiration as he watched you from the corner of his eye with a wan smile. “You’ve got guts.”

“Fuck you, Hol Horse, let me out!”

Reaching the car, his face cracked and his pupils narrowed into slits, Diego reared back a clawed hand. In tandem, Hol Horse reached for his belt, whipping a gun out from a holster you could not see and firing. The bullet hit Diego square in the palm, the force knocking him backward and onto the pavement as he howled in pain. Throughout the car, the sound of locks engaging clicked in unison, and the window rolled up as you screamed his name. Anger beat its fists without mercy at your chest, its heat and the ringing in your ears from the gunshot drowning out all else.

You were not going down without a fight.

“I’ll kill you,” you shouted, lunging for Hol Horse’s gun. With ease, he caught you by the wrists and twisted you forward, pressing your back against his chest and holding you in place. Wriggling in his grip, you continued to kick and scream, Diego staggering to his feet outside and blinking at his ruined hand.

“You bloody shot me,” he roared. “You inbred country fuck!”

Hol Horse looked at the back of the driver’s seat, his expression hard.

“Drive.”

The car flew into reverse, veering sharply into the street and speeding off; the last thing you saw before turning the corner was Diego sprinting to the house, holding his bleeding palm tightly. Inside the car it had went quiet, punctuated only by the soft hum of the engine. In the passenger’s seat, Rubber Soul was primping and styling his hair in the sun visor mirror; in the driver’s seat, the man behind the wheel bobbed his head to music that no one could hear. Letting your gaze fall on the scenery whipping past the window in a blur, you took a deep breath.

“All of you,” you said hoarsely, your throat burning from screaming. “Every single one of you in this car, I hope you take a good look at the sun when it rises. Because you’ll never see another one again. Dio’s going to kill you.”

“You so sure of that?” Rubber Soul laughed. “He might actually thank us. He was crying to Pucci about whether or not he should kill you a week ago. He wanted you dead, too, sweet cheeks, don’t delude yourself into thinking that you’re important to him.”

Somehow, that revelation did not surprise you.

“Then I’ll fucking do it,” you snapped. 

“Ooh,” the driver said gleefully, clapping two right hands on the steering wheel. “You’re right, Hol Horse! She does have guts. Wonder how they’ll look on the floor once I’ve cut them out.”

Horror bloomed as you stared at his hands, realizing with a sinking feeling who he inherited them from.

Two right hands? That’s—

“Easy, J. Geil,” Hol Horse reprimanded. “Your mother said so herself. We have to bring her alive, remember?”

Holy fuck, that’s Enyaba’s son.

“I’m sure mother won’t mind if I have a little fun once we do,” J. Geil cackled from the driver’s seat. “Maybe I’ll rearrange them from inside before I cut them out of her, just to see the order they fall out in!”

The threat made you hollow; you understood all too clearly what it held within it. But you would be damned if you let them notice.

“Try it,” you snarled, tapping into every last vestige of bravery that you felt. “and I’ll bite your fucking dick off before you can even get it in, you piece of shit.”

Gently, Hol Horse squeezed your wrists, a silent warning to shut up.

“You’d have a hard time doing that after I pull out all of those pretty teeth in your mouth, wouldn’t you?” Still cackling, he turned onto the freeway. “Hol Horse, check her pockets. Mother said the bird saw Dio give her an Arrow.”

Freeing one hand from his hold while keeping you locked in place, he fumbled around in your jacket pockets before closing his fist over the Arrow and taking it, then taking your phone as a precaution. From the passenger’s seat, Rubber Soul grimaced.

“You’re a real piece of work,” he muttered, frowning at J. Geil before craning in the seat to look at you. “At least let me have a shot at her before you mutilate her, okay, buddy?”

Finally getting a look at his face, you studied him, committing every detail to memory in the event you survived this. Muscular, he was otherwise perfectly average with brown eyes and plain features, holding a haughty and arrogant demeanor that did not measure up to his lack of strength, wit or charisma. 

You rolled your eyes.

“I’ll bite yours off too, you troglodyte.”

“I—hey! You should be thrilled that someone as handsome as me is willing to give you a shot before you die. I bet I’d even be better than Dio.”

“Fuck off,” you shouted, kicking the back of his seat hard enough to jolt him forward.

“Hol Horse,” he yelped, flinching dramatically in the seat. “Knock her out or something before she makes us crash or worse, she scuffs up my beautiful face.”

“I said it before,” Hol Horse said in an even tone. “I’ll never hurt a lady. I’m not gonna knock her out.”

“Fine,” Rubber Soul shot back. “Then I will.”

Unbuckling his seatbelt, he maneuvered his body to face you in the seat and drew back his fist; recoiling from it in Hol Horse’s grip, you closed your eyes as pain throttled against the side of your face and settled into darkness, slumping against Hol Horse’s chest.

***

Fury propelled Diego forward, up the driveway and to the front door, enhancing his sight as he moved through the mansion’s shadows. For months, he had been roped into both of their schemes, acting as therapist and pawn, and the fruits of his labor had long since spoiled. Now, all he had to show for it was bullet-induced stigmata, a friend—no, it still felt strange to call her that, no matter how true the sentiment may be—an acquaintance missing, a significant other that doled out affection like a nun and an upended racing career that he had toiled through his whole life to create.

Clutching his wounded hand, Diego bounded up the stairs, pain contorting his features into an expression that eerily resembled a death mask with each step. Blood flowed in gushing rivulets from the gaping hole in the center of his palm, renewing its vigor with every pump of his heart.

“Can’t believe I left London for this,” he grumbled. “All of this just to get bloody shot at. I should have just stayed home. No money’s worth this nonsense.”

Fury, Diego decided as he kicked down the door to find Dio lounging in the high-backed green armchair by the fireplace with a book, immune to the chaos, was an understatement; he was absolutely fucking livid at what his life had become.

“She’s gone,” Diego shouted without preamble, gesturing toward the door with both hands. “Dio, she’s gone.”

“You could have knocked,” Dio drawled, turning a page. “And I assume by ‘gone’ you mean she realized whatever plan she had to come here and stand in the way of my goals would fail. What a pity. I was quite looking forward to a showdown.”

He turned another page.

“Do try to avoid bleeding all over the rug, will you? It’s new.”

Mouth agape, Diego stared at Dio, incredulous. 

“Are you being intentionally dense or did you not hear me? She’s gone,” he stressed, drawing out the word with insistence. “The priest and Enyaba got her.”

Dio did not look up from his book.

“Tragic,” he replied in a dry voice. “Though I cannot for the life of me understand why you all insist Pucci is involved in this. Regardless, I wish the Joestars the best of luck in their endeavors to find her.”

“Did you not steal my phone hours ago just to contact her? Or go straightaway to Joseph’s house to ensure she was all right? Why are you being so capricious about this?”

“I did what I could to help her. If she did not choose to take that help, that is entirely her fault.”

His exasperation had reached its zenith. Stomping over to Dio’s side, he tore the book from his hands and sent it flying across the room, his breathing heavy. 

“Are you fucking daft?!” Diego screamed in his face. “Stop being an insufferable twat for five bloody minutes, get off your arse, and help me find her!”

Slowly, Dio met his eyes, danger written clear into his stare.

“And why should I, Diego?” Implacable calm blanketed his voice, greatly betrayed by the cold hatred set in his features. “What happens to her is none of my concern.”

“Oh, come off it,” shouted Diego. “Yes it is! You’re the reason she’s gone, you’re the one who drove her out! You may as well have handed her over to them on a silver platter or killed her your bloody self, you minging rotter! What the bloody hell did she do to you to where she deserves to die for it? You act like she broke your heart or—”

He stopped himself short, realization dawning on him as Dio’s jaw clenched.

“—Oh my God,” he said softly, shaking his head. “She did, didn’t she? Are you really telling me you would condemn a woman to death because you can’t handle rejection?”

“Don’t think to tell me how I feel,” he said warningly, his voice unearthly quiet. “Much less espouse such trivial notions to me like that. To be enamored is a weakness only indulged in by foolish, pathetic little humans. I have long existed beyond that point.”

“No you bloody haven’t,” Diego retorted. “If you had, you would’ve killed her the moment you knew about Gyro.” 

It was slight, so much so that Diego had almost missed it. But Dio had flinched, and Diego went in for the kill.

“Do you think if something happens to her, you’ll magically get over it? That’s not how it works. All that’s doing is driving her further into Gyro’ arms.”

“And? Let her go into them.” His tone became nothing short of lethal, and Diego stilled. “Even if I did go and rescue her, if I saved her and brought her back here to keep her safe, then what? Do you think I could give her what she deserves? That I could give her understanding, gentleness, warmth?”

Dio turned his attention to the window; it became clear to Diego that he had ran through this argument a thousand times in his own head just by the way his shoulders had ever so slightly dropped.

“I can only give her cruelty, hatred, violence, I will break her and wear her into nothing out of nature alone. What if she wanted marriage, or children? I don’t even know if I could give her that, and if I could, what sort of father would I be? What kind of husband?”

More quietly, he spoke, resting a hand beneath his chin. “And what about when she dies, Diego? When she becomes old and frail, as weak humans do, and she dies? Then what becomes of me? Who am I then, without her?”

In his soliloquy there was a quiet admittance, and Diego understood everything. 

The complete one-eighty Dio had done upon discovering her relationship with Gyro, the set of his jaw when he had ripped Diego’s phone from his hand and disappeared into the night; everything, even that doomed vacation in that shabby cabin had made perfect sense. He had known from the very first night he had came to this cursed enclave of the world and sealed himself off in its geometric walls, just as Johnny had known in the cabin’s basement, and he had laughed it off. 

And in so many words, Dio had all but admitted it.

Diego stared at him, utterly dumbfounded by what he was hearing. For a brief moment he could not believe that he had said anything at all, let alone meant it. But there was only truth behind his words, made evident by the storm of emotions clouding his gaze, threatening to break the polished mask of detachment he had donned. He had lived with Dio long enough to read him, paid enough attention to where he could pick out fact from fiction, and the slight falter in his composure was more than enough of a giveaway.

“You’re in love with her. And you’re just going to let her go, then? You’d rather let her die than admit you love her, is that it?”

Dio said nothing, contempt flashing in his eyes like sunlight glinting across a polished knife.

“Look at you,” Diego spat, nodding toward him and prodding him in the chest with the index finger of his wounded hand. “Sulking about in the shadows while the woman you love is dragged off to her death and letting a fucking Zeppeli take what’s yours. You called me an embarrassment to the bloodline, but what does this make you? You absolute child. If you aren’t going to do anything, then, give me your blood and heal my hand. I’ll save her myself.”

When Dio finally spoke, there was an edge to his voice that sent a chill down Diego’s spine.

“Who was it?”

“Some cunt named Rubber Soul,” Diego answered immediately, relief pricking at the nape of his neck. “His Stand allows him to shape-shift, he tricked her into getting in the car with him by pretending to be you.”

At that Dio appeared genuinely offended, his eyes widening and his nostrils flared. “I’ve heard about him,” he said quietly, his stare moving down to Diego’s palm. “I thought I heard a gunshot. Hol Horse?”

“Think so. And some hideous blighter in the car with a weirdly shaped head. Looked like he’d just crawled out from under a bridge to demand a toll to cross it.”

“That would be J. Geil. Enyaba’s son. Pucci was right, she was behind this the entire time.”

“That’s what we’ve been trying to bloody tell you, you bellend,” Diego was shouting again, but he did not care. “Wait, Pucci told you?”

“As I’ve said the entire time,” Dio snapped, “I tasked Pucci with investigating this little matter of insubordination. So yes, Pucci told me.”

Suddenly Dio stood, silence suffocating the room like acrid smoke. Then, without warning he brought his own wrist to his mouth, dragging the tip of his fang across the flesh and grabbing Diego’s hand. Watching him intently, Dio let the blood drip into the wound, his stare unflinching while Diego’s hand knit itself shut. Discomfited by the entire ordeal, he yanked back his hand once it healed. Blood dripped onto the rug and Dio scowled, briefly glaring down at it before meeting Diego’s eyes once more. 

“Can you drive? I still have yet to figure out how an automobile works.”

“Lazy git,” Diego muttered. “‘Course I can drive. I just don’t have a license.”

“That matters little.”

He pushed past Diego and reached for a jacket that had been draped over another chair, shrugging it over his shoulders.

“Where are you going?” Diego asked, unsure whether to follow.

Sliding on the jacket, he reached for the door.

“What was it you said, Diego?” Dio said over his shoulder. “Stop being an insufferable twat and help you find her? That’s where I’m going. You’re driving. We’ll take the Bugatti.”

Blinking, he watched Dio in a stupor, unsure if he had heard him right. A Bugatti? Did he even know what that was? Diego ran through a list of every car he had seen at the estate, no Bugatti coming to mind at all.

“Since when did we have a Bugatti?”

“I have a Bugatti. Not you. Under the tarp in the garage,” Dio replied evenly as he opened the door. “From what I understand, it is a Bugatti Chiron Super Sport specifically. Of course, I have little grasp of what that means, but I assume it’s a decent car.”

That fucking wanker has a bloody Chiron?

For the first time, Diego smiled at his ancestor.

“I think it’ll suffice,” he said, following Dio out the door.

Considering it goes from zero to ninety-six kilometers per hour in two seconds, Diego added silently, absolutely giddy at the prospect of testing out that number.

***

Gyro awoke rather violently to the sound of his phone ringing, the number calling him one he did not recognize. Blinking away the sleep that blurred his eyes, he rejected the call and checked the time, turning off his ringer he did not remember putting on and putting the phone on silent mode.

Who the fuck is calling me at five in the morning?

He sat up on the floor and yawned, Johnny still sound asleep in bed. It never ceased to amaze him, how much Johnny could sleep through. The kid could be in the epicenter of an earthquake and sleep through the tremors; knowing him, he would wake up at the last aftershock and angrily demand to know why he was surrounded by rubble.

In his hand, his phone rang once more, the same number calling him. Denying the call a second time, a distinct wariness seized him and he stood. Careful not to make any noise lest he wake anyone else in the house, he stepped out and into the hallway, his gut telling him to check her room. Every creak of the floorboard lay drowned out by the sound of Joseph’s snoring droning out from the end of the hall and he offered a quick prayer of thanks for the cover before slowly opening her door.

“Amore?” Gyro whispered in the dark. “Everything okay?”

There was no answer, and for one beautifully short moment Gyro was sure she was sleeping soundly in bed. He was sure right up until his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he noticed the curtains on the window pulled all the way back, the screen just an inch out of place, and her bed completely empty.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathed, panic seizing him. “Jesus fucking Christ, baby, what did you do?”

Nearly tripping in the dark as he doubled back into the hallway, he made way to the front door and coaxed it open, dashing out in a mad sprint to the driveway and finding her car missing.

“No,” he groaned, running an anxious hand through his hair with a grimace. “No, no, no, no, where did you go?”

His phone rang again; this time, he answered it, bracing himself for whatever horror the caller would bring.

“What?” Gyro answered flatly.

“I do hope that isn’t a reflection of your bedside manner,” Dio drawled from the other end over the roar of a car engine, the sound of his voice momentarily stopping Gyro’s heart. “What a shame it would be if the most talented surgeon of his age was so callous to those poor souls under his knife.”

Gyro’s voice went low, hate cutting through each syllable in a harsh whisper. “Where is she? What have you done to her?”

“Me? I did nothing. She came to me, in fact. Snuck out in the middle of the night, just to see me. But I’m sure you can guess why I’m calling.”

Beating back the confusion and pang of hurt that set in at that revelation, Gyro gripped the phone tightly, staring straight ahead, swallowing down the lump in his throat.

“She didn’t show up.”

“Oh, she did,” Dio said in a breezy tone; but even Gyro could pick up on the subtle anger beneath it. “But she was followed. She never made it past the gate. It appears she was abducted by three Stand users, two of whom were formerly under my employ: Hol Horse, J. Geil, and a man named Rubber Soul. Diego and I are headed toward Silver Lake as we speak, we believe she is being taken to Enyaba’s shop.”

“Why tell me?”

“Don’t you see, Gyro? I’m giving you the chance to play the hero for your beloved. To save her. That way, when she discovers that you used her the entire time so you could get closer to killing me and going back to your pathetic little life under your father’s thumb in Naples, it will be that much more painful when she leaves you.”

Falling silent, he bit down on the inside of his cheek.

“I knew it,” he said quietly, savoring Gyro’s silent admittance of guilt. “Did you ever care about her at all? Or was she merely a pawn to sacrifice in your poorly thought out game of chess? No need to answer, that question is rhetorical. But there is a pragmatic reason behind this call, Zeppeli. There is a chance she may not be there. Dawn is in less than an hour. If I do not reach her by then, I fully expect you to.”

Exerting every ounce of self-restraint Gyro possessed, he spoke through gritted teeth.

“How do I know this isn’t a trap and she isn’t already dead somehow?”

“A fair question. Perhaps this will convince you,” Dio replied in a dark tone, malice oozing through the receiver. “I have tolerated you, your pathetic bloodline, and the Joestars for long enough. Should you fail and she dies, that tolerance will be null and void, and every last one of you will suffer at my mercy. I’ll start with your little brothers first. Then your mother. Then Gregorio. Then Caesar, Joseph, and every breathing member of the Joestar clan. I will not make their deaths quick. I will draw each out, torturing them until they beg me to kill them, and when I finally do they will meet their end knowing you brought it upon them, because I will whisper the name of their true killer in their ear as they draw their last breath. I’ll record each and every one. Then I will find you, and I will make sure the last thing you ever hear are their screams as I eat you alive.”

Dio paused.

“I don’t hear your car starting, Gyro.”

Laughing, Dio hung up, and Gyro sprinted back into the house. Sliding into a tiptoeing traipse at the door, he deftly slipped back into Johnny’s room and grabbed his keys before darting back out, leaping back into his car and barreling down the road toward the freeway.

Chapter Text

The first thing you could register was the subtle swish of fabric sweeping against stone, scraping at your ears like a cat’s claw on silk and perforating through the thick fog that held down your eyelids. A dull pound, its rhythm screaming through your skull, reverberated across your cheek and radiated upward; cold ground lay beneath you, porous and coarse. Concrete. 

Don’t open your eyes.

Gradually, awareness returned to you, slithering through the mire like an eel in mud. Above you, a chorus of voices sounded off, each blurred and distorted. It was like overhearing a conversation while being held underwater, muted and garbled and vaguely incomprehensible, slivers of clarity breaking through the surface to reach you.

“I think she’s coming to,” one said, a male voice that felt syrupy and rough and made you think of molasses and cigarette burns.

Don’t open your eyes. Stay down.

Your cheek throbbed against the concrete floor.

“Good,” screeched a voice like kindling; it belonged to a woman. “I’ve got some questions for the little brat before we kill her.”

Hol Horse. Enyaba.

“Mother,” another voice chimed, saccharine and indescribably wrong, it was the masculine counterpart to the woman’s in grating shrillness. “You’ve been on your feet all night, you should rest for a little while. Let us keep an eye on her while you sleep, and when you wake up she’ll be ready for you.”

J. Geil.

“Oh,” Enya simpered. “You’re too good to me, my son! It would be better to get this over quickly, though…”

“Sunrise is in fifteen minutes, go rest. You always do bring up your aching bones, Mother.”

The sound of dry, cracky lips against skin crackled at the end of her sentence and heralded in that same peculiar swish, this time accompanied by the scrape of a cane. A door opened at the furthest reach of your hearing, the groan a heavy weight dragged along stone as it swung back shut following close behind. Then, for a brief second, silence, and footsteps inched toward you while a hideous cackle pealed through the air like a thunderclap.

“Say, Hol Horse,” J. Geil called gleefully, the sound of it frighteningly close. “How do you think she moans? I’m betting she squeals like a stuck pig.”

“Now, hold on,” Hol Horse said quickly, the sound of his boots clicking across the cement growing louder. “Didn’t you learn from that Polnareff girl in France? Her and her brother put you away for fifteen years.”

Polnareff?

The name vaguely rang a bell, conjuring up images of a man with a tall silver flat top and the hint of a French accent, two earrings in the shape of a broken heart dangling from his lobes. 

“I did,” J. Geil answered as he turned you over on your back. “I learned to not let them live. And she was so mouthy in the car, she was practically begging for it! It wouldn’t hurt to give her one last go-around, especially if she was Dio’s fuck-toy like Mother says.”

“I don’t think threatening to bite off your pecker is begging.”

“She’s still out. Let’s see if Sleeping Beauty can be woken up with a kiss from a handsome prince.”

Rancid air blew up into your nose, hot and damp and not unlike the reek of putrefaction and liquefied garbage. A heavy weight settled over you, forcing the air from your lungs as it crushed down on your abdomen and sides. Then a dark shadow loomed across the back of your eyelids, and you became certain that J. Geil was straddled over you. 

“Handsome’s a word,” Hol Horse drawled sardonically.

Now.

Your eyes flew open, and surprise registered dull on J. Geil’s hideous face. Using your elbows and palms as leverage, you launched yourself upward in an arching curve, head-butting him as hard and wincing at the uneven graze of teeth scraping over your forehead. A gurgled cry of shock bubbled up from his throat and you brought your knee sharply back, biting back a grin as it collided with his spine. Behind him, Hol Horse wore a small smile, looking over his shoulder before giving you a covert thumbs-up.

“What the—hey!” J. Geil bellowed, lurching forward. Scrambling out from under him in the nick of time, you watched as he fell face-first into the ground and rose to your feet.

Muffled laughter like a shriek rose from the concrete, and J. Geil looked up.

“I like ‘em with a little fight,” he taunted. “It’s so cute when it leaves their eyes.”

White light splashed across your field of vision, and crimson bloomed wet down your front. A stinging burn welled across your chest, diagonal along the skin; biting your tongue to beat back a yelp, you gingerly brought a hand to the wound. It was superficial, made deep enough to make you bleed, but no real damage had been done—unlike Wang Chan’s claw, it had not meant to be a killing blow.

“My Stand is called the Hanged Man,” he boasted as he stood. “Bet you can’t guess what it does.”

“I don’t give a fuck about what it does,” you shot back. Steadying your breathing, you narrowed your eyes. “I don’t need a Stand to beat the shit out of you.”

Hol Horse raised a curious eyebrow, watching the exchange unfold in silence. Stalling for time as you cycled your breathing in shallow inhales, you clenched your hands into fists.

“Really?” J. Geil grinned widely, his mouth a hideous pit of missing teeth and sallow gums. “What are you gonna use, Hamon? Mother says you’re too stupid to even figure it out.”

Another flash of light precluded pain exploding across your thighs and stomach, the cuts noticeably deeper. Staggering back, it threw off your breathing, and J. Geil charged. Bending his forearm inward, he brought his elbow up sharply and shoved it into your chest, knocking you onto the ground.

“Mother won’t be too mad if I kill you here and now. But I’m gonna make it fun for me. I really do think you’d squeal like a piglet, I want to see if I’m right.”

Caught up in the fight, you had not noticed Hol Horse creeping forward; with a flourish, he twirled his gun on his index finger and brought the butt of it crashing down on the back of J. Geil’s head. The blow did not kill him—much to your chagrin—but sent him plummeting back to the concrete, unconscious.

Then his hands were empty, one extended outward to you to help you up. Eyeing him shrewdly, you did not take it, scooting back on the concrete away from his grasp.

“What are you doing?”

“I may be a man of few scruples, darlin’, but I do have some scruples. One of them is not letting an innocent woman get hurt.”

Distrust and disbelief held you in equal measure, sharpening your stare into narrowed slits. 

“You literally brought me here to my death.”

Hol Horse shrugged, lighting a cigarette and extending his hand back to you.

“That’s what old Enyaba thinks, and my partner here. But someone else paid me more to keep you safe. Now come on, get up. I gotta take you to my boss.”

Wary, you took Hol Horse’s hand and allowed him to help you to your feet. 

“Sorry I said your name was stupid,” you said awkwardly, wincing as the cuts along your body stung in protest. 

“S’all right,” Hol Horse replied idly, taking a long drag and exhaling. “You were backed in a corner, I’d have done the same.”

Taking a moment to look around, you gauged your surroundings with a bemused stare. It was an old warehouse made of brick and wood, termite-eaten beams of wood cross-hatching across the ceiling above an iron catwalk that bridged the length between the uppermost floor. Largely abandoned, it lay in a state of disrepair, discarded pipes and hulking pieces of outdated machinery haphazardly strewn about the concrete and propped up along the walls. A rusted out forklift lay in the back corner toward the heavy door, and in a folding chair nearby sat Rubber Soul, fast asleep.

“Where are we?”

“An old ironworks foundry near Downtown,” Hol Horse answered. “Hasn’t been used for that in a while though. Far as I know Enyaba bought it to clean up and rent out as an event space.”

Fishing in his pants pocket, he held up a single finger.

“Oh, hold on—this is yours,” he handed your phone back to you. “Enyaba took the Arrow back, I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” you said, blinking in surprise as you took it from him. “So, what do we do now?”

“We wait for you to get your bearings and then we go,” he answered simply, taking another drag.

Nodding, you messaged Dio.

Sorry I flaked, I got kidnapped. By the way, it was Enyaba and her mutant spawn.

The ellipses icon sprang into life on the screen, sending your heart racing in apprehension.

I was told by Diego that Hol Horse was an accomplice as well. Is that not still true?

Actually, you typed. I’m with him right now. He knocked out J. Geil when he tried to assault me.

The ellipses started and stopped, silence radiating severe from the screen, and a text from Diego popped up. Next to you, Hol Horse glanced down at his screen, his phone ringing in his hand.

Christ, woman, what did you say to him? Looks like he’s about to rip someone’s throat out.  Glad you’re alive, by the way.

“Ah, Mr. Dio,” Hol Horse greeted with a shaky smile, his cigarette trembling between his teeth. “To what do—she’s safe, yes, she’s standing right next to me.”

Replying slowly to Diego’s text, you kept your eyes focused downward and eavesdropped.

Just that I’m okay. Hol Horse apparently was here to bail me out.

“No, she’s correct, Mr. Dio, he did. But I can’t take all the credit, she head-butted him and kneed him in the back. I—yes, she did in fact head-butt him.”

Please tell me you head-butted Hol Horse too, that bastard deserves it for shooting me in the bloody hand.

Grinning, you put a pin in the conversation and checked your phone, your notifications laden with missed calls from Gyro. Seeing the number thirty-two in parentheses in your call log by his name, highlighted in red, made your smile falter; guilt tore through you at the realization that he knew you were missing, and you sent him a message.

Hey, you typed. I’m okay. Sorry, I just had to get out for a while.

His response, while warranted, was far less affable than Dio’s.

Are you fucking kidding me? You snuck out in the middle of the night to see Dio, you got fucking kidnapped, and you’re lying to me about it? Where the fuck are you?

Your stomach churning, you sighed and drafted a reply, stopping as you received another message from Gyro.

No, on second thought. Share your fucking location, I’m coming to get you. We need to fucking talk.

“Great,” you muttered, sending him your location. “First I get kidnapped, now I’m going to get dumped. What a great day.”

Strangely, the threat of impending doom hanging over your relationship did not have the heavy weight you expected it to carry; instead, as much as you cared for Gyro, you almost felt relieved. Chalking it up to shock and surprise that you were even alive, you took a deep breath and put your phone away. Hol Horse raised his eyebrows and looked in your direction, still on the phone with Dio as he tossed his cigarette butt to the ground and put it out with his boot.

“You got it,” he said after a moment, and he hung up. Glancing over at you, he tucked his phone back in his pocket and motioned for you to follow him. With careful steps you trailed behind Hol Horse and went through another set of heavy metal doors, leading you out to a parking lot. Pale blue and vivid orange streaked across the sky, the scant clouds floating over dyed pastel pink.

Dawn had come.

Hol Horse stopped at an old Ford F-150 parked next to the one you had been brought in, its paint a faded red and its exterior a little worse for wear.

“Climb on in,” he called as he unlocked the car and hoisted himself into the driver’s seat. Maneuvering yourself to where your wounds did not have any pressure on them or contact with the interior, you got in the passenger’s seat and buckled in, and Hol Horse reversed out of the parking lot.

“Those hurt?” Hol Horse pointed to the cuts, rolling down the window and lighting another cigarette.

“A little,” you answered. “He didn’t get me too deep.”

Displeasure creased the corners of Hol Horse’s mouth and he shook his head in disgust.

“That’s his modus operandi,” he drew out the words, butchering the pronunciation of ‘operandi’ in one long drawl. “You ain’t the first girl he tried that with. Last one was in France, a girl named Sherry Polnareff. He thought she died, but she managed to survive. Her and her brother got him arrested.”

So that’s what he meant by ‘that Polnareff girl.’

Watching the tall art deco style buildings lumber past through the window, you gave Hol Horse a dark look.

“If you ‘have some scruples’ and would never harm a woman, why do you work with a convicted rapist?”

Hol Horse groaned.

“Well, it ain’t out of a sense of camaraderie, I’ll tell you that much. Our Stands work well together and our jobs tend to line up, that’s about all there is to it.”

“The Hanged Man, right? That’s his? What’s yours, what do they do?”

“That’s it, yeah. His Stand moves through reflective surfaces, like windows and metal and mirrors, and can cut you through ‘em. Mine is Emperor. It’s my gun, and I can control the trajectory of the bullet.”

“Does his Stand move through the reflection given off the bullets?”

“You got it, darlin’. Now, not that it’s my business,” Hol Horse said hesitantly as he drove toward Little Tokyo, frowning. “But I overheard you mentioning something about getting dumped? I thought you were Mr. Dio’s girlfriend.”

“Apparently everyone thinks that,” you muttered, staring back out the window. “But no. I’m just his assistant.”

Hol Horse chuckled. “I hope I ain’t speaking out of turn here, but there’s a reason everyone thinks that, and I think you know what it is.”

Fuck, even Hol Horse thinks it? He’s barely even around, I’ve seen him like three times at most.

A heavy weight pressed down on your chest and sank low to the pit of your stomach, and you turned your attention to the lightening sky with a grimace. 

What if they’re right?

Hating how the thought made your throat constrict and sent a jolt through you that you could feel in your teeth, you drove the thought out.

Hol Horse went on. “This guy you’re dating, how long y’all been together?”

“Not too long,” you replied, unsure where he was headed.

“You love him? You didn’t seem too beat up about the prospect of him leaving.”

Morose, you sunk into the passenger’s seat, wishing he would ask about anything except the topic at hand.

“No,” you answered truthfully. “We barely started dating. I like him a lot, he’s a good guy, but it’s too early for love.”

“Lemme ask you this,” he said after a moment, his tone thoughtful. “When I gave you your phone back, who was the first person you got ahold of?”

“Dio,” you replied.

“When you’re in trouble, who’s the first person you call?”

“…Dio,” you meekly repeated. Hol Horse shook his head at the answer, a small smirk wrapping around the ever-present cigarette in his mouth.

“And you snuck out to see him knowing you had people after you.”

You nodded, your cheeks burning bright under his interrogation.

“You wanna know the first thing that came out of Mr. Dio’s mouth when he called me? He asked if you were safe. Then he said the only reason he wasn’t going to rip my throat out was because I stopped J. Geil. Should’ve heard the pride in his voice when he heard you fought back. Last thing he said was, ‘whatever price I’ll need to pay, name it and it is yours. Money is no issue. Keep her safe for me until nightfall.’ That was it.”

Whatever passing distraction the city whizzing past may have provided evaporated into the ether at that, and you sat up in the chair. A not unpleasant fluttering sensation took root at the base of your throat, your heartbeat echoing wildly in your ears. Knowing that lent credence to Hol Horse, Johnny, Caesar, Gyro—even Diego’s—suspicions, and you summoned to the forefront of your memory every time Dio had been there for you when you had needed him. There was no hesitation on his part when you had called for him during the fight with Wang Chan, and he had willingly mended your wounded leg when he had seen it. With Diego, he had brought you to safety the moment he had subdued him; with a jolt, you remembered the first thing he had said when you called him.

“Are you safe?”

The blanket over the television in that dingy Lake Arrowhead basement, all the tiny little quips and jabs that held no enmity behind them, the strange kiss in the living room after New Year’s, the disproportionate reaction to your relationship with Gyro and all the times he had ever done as you asked even if his own solution proved more advantageous; all of it fell into place like the last few pieces of a puzzle you had spent months scrambling to solve. They were all right. He loved you. You had even thought so yourself, very briefly, that night in Lake Arrowhead, chugging down water over the sink as an excuse to get away from him and try to make sense of it all.

And it took fucking Hol Horse for you to see it.

Something lurked underneath; a harsh truth you had avoided from the moment you had kissed Gyro for the first time. That it may not have been love, but to a point it was irrefutably reciprocated. Hol Horse had a point—whenever you were in danger, or sought comfort, you went to Dio. Even if you hated his guts, even if you knew beyond the shadow of a doubt what his true nature was, he was still the first person you called. You had risked your own safety to see him, and even as you had done it you knew the reason was flimsy at best.

The epiphany was both pleasant and horrifying as it set in, and you groaned. 

Even if I did, it’s not like anything can come if it. Not with the path he’s taken. I chose Gyro for a reason, I chose him because he was the right choice. Because he’s safe. 

Because he’s a good distraction, a tiny voice hissed from the shadowy recesses of your mind, clawing its way to the forefront. Seditious and coarse, it rasped its way through you. But you said it yourself. You don’t love him. You literally think of Dio every time he touches you. And be honest, you did it to piss off Dio. That’s why you’re not sad he might break up with you. You’re glad it’s over.

A giant beige building made of jutting edges and angles, smooth stone accented with panels loomed into view, a massive black rectangle shooting out of it with a taupe cross emblazoned across its front. Raising your eyebrows, you glanced between it and Hol Horse, confusion drawing your lips slack.

“Where are we?”

“Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels,” Hol Horse answered. “This is where I’m supposed to bring you.”

Dread pooled deep in your belly and you gripped the armrest. Ahead, the church towered ever higher over the car, and you watched Hol Horse through the corner of your eye.

This is a Catholic Church. Oh, fuck.

Speaking in a low voice, you swallowed back bile. “Who hired you?”

“Oh,” Hol Horse said brightly. “Father Pucci.”

Fear gripped you, sending tremors outward from your chest to the very tips of your fingers and toes.

Oh, God, no.

“Turn back,” you said hurriedly, smacking Hol Horse on the arm. “Turn back right the fuck now. Take me to Dio’s. Don’t take me here.”

“Why?” Hol Horse watched you in confusion, pulling into the parking lot with a frown. “There’s nothing to be scared of. He’s been working with Dio and tricked Enyaba into thinking he’s on her side. He orchestrated the whole thing. You’re safe.”

“No I’m fucking not,” you cried. “Turn back.”

Hol Horse parked the car in the first open space closest to the entrance, utterly bewildered.

“Hey, it’s gonna be fine. He’s a priest, he ain’t gonna hurt you. Look,” he said, pointing to the entrance. “He’s right there.”

Shaking, you looked to where he was pointing and found Pucci waiting, a faint smile on his lips. Hol Horse got out of the car, walking over to Pucci in a languid pace with a wide grin and a jovial wave. Rooted to the spot, you hunched forward and stashed your phone in your bra, dried blood flaking off your chest and onto the screen upon contact.

Can’t risk Pucci taking it.

When you sat back up, you found Pucci and Hol Horse drawing close to the truck, the latter gently whispering as he pointed to you. Nodding in understanding, Pucci beckoned to you, concern etched into his stare.

“I understand why you may be concerned,” called Pucci. “But I assure you I mean you no harm. I serve Dio as I serve God. I would not harm anyone he holds dear. Hol Horse tells me you’re wounded, I have a first aid kit inside. Please, come out.”

For a long moment you studied him, searching every wrinkle and crease in his face to find something to confirm your suspicions and turning up nothing. 

Maybe I’m wrong. The TV only said Enyaba. Hol Horse hasn’t given me any reason not to trust him, and Dio trusts him. Maybe I’m just on edge.

Reluctant, you unbuckled the seatbelt and headed over to them, Pucci gently draping an arm across your shoulders once you drew near and leading you inside.

“I am truly sorry for what’s happened to you,” Pucci said quietly, brow furrowed. “You have suffered so needlessly. Let’s get your wounds taken care of, and we’ll wait for Dio inside. I’ve already contacted him, he will be here at nightfall.”

With a nod, not fully trusting but seeing no other option, you stepped through the doors flanked by Pucci and Hol Horse.

***

Gyro stared at the map on his phone for far too long, mounting bewilderment and a deep sense of foreboding sharpening the richness of his lips into a thin line. 

“Why the hell are you at a church?”

He had said it softly, alone in his car, scratching his head as he continued to look at the little dot showing her location. Opening Safari, he typed in “Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels” and waited, brow furrowed as he chewed on his bottom lip. Checking its homepage, he tapped the three horizontal bars in the top left hand corner and scanned the drop down list. Tapping plus sign next to the “Cathedral” option to get an address, he paused at “Our People” and frowned, his gut telling him to look into it.

“Archbishop, pastor…resident priests,” he muttered aloud, selecting the third option. One name stood out, a name that sent his blood running cold to his heart.

Father Enrico Pucci.

“Fuck,” he shouted, plugging the address into Waze and speeding off toward the church. 

Swallowing down his pride, he called Dio.

“I know where she is,” Gyro yelled the moment the call connected. “She’s at Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels. Pucci has her.”

“Is she really?” Dio was calm, his tone even as he spoke. “Good. Then Hol Horse did as he was told. Congratulations, Gyro, you and your loved ones will live to see another day. Now if you’ll—”

“—What the fuck do you mean, good? He’s going to kill her!”

Dio paused, a long sigh of exasperation leaving him. “I do not understand how she managed to convince herself that Pucci is a threat despite my repeated assurances that he was working with me, but I assure you he is not going to kill her.”

“Did it ever occur to you that you could be, I don’t know, wrong?”

Another pause followed, itself far more tense than the first. 

“Did it ever occur to you,” Dio said quietly, “that fucking my assistant does not give you insight into my life nor colleagues, much less the authority to speak to me as if you do? You’ve served your purpose, Gyro. Do not test my limits and make me go back on my word.”

“Of what, not killing me? She’d never forgive you if you did.”

Dio fell silent, and Gyro knew he had hit a nerve. 

“Listen,” he said in a low voice, vitriol dripping from every word. “If you want to delude yourself into thinking that she’s safe, that’s on you. Me? I’m going to listen to her, save the woman I love, and when I do, I’m going to make sure you never fucking come near her again.”

Another pause; then, low and breathy, a dark laugh issued through the receiver. When Dio spoke, his voice was decidedly light, almost pleasant.

“Your youngest brother, he just turned twelve, didn’t he? A rather precocious child from what your mother wrote on her Facebook. Brightest child amongst his peers, gifted in mathematics and science.”

Gyro went still, his breathing labored.

“And your second youngest brother, he’s a musical prodigy. Already rumored to have been set up to play in the Santa Cecilia Orchestra when he’s of age, and he’s barely seventeen. After him is your third youngest brother, he’ll be joining S.S.C Napoli this year, won’t he? And the brother closest in age to you, he recently began working for United Nations. I must say, Gyro, you do come from quite the illustrious family. Such promise with every child. Your father must be proud.”

“Shut up,” Gyro hissed, his heart pounding.

“Oh, is he not?” Dio asked airily. “Then I suppose he won’t be too heartbroken when he has to bury them, one by one. Maybe he’ll even perform their autopsies, I know he oversaw their births.”

“Shut up,” Gyro repeated, shouting. 

Dio laughed once more, harsh and cold and holding in it an unspoken threat. “Remember, Gyro. You served your purpose, and my magnanimity is minimal at best. You are in no position to speak to me as if we are equals, much less as if you pose a threat to me in any way. But unlike you, I have no intention of keeping her away from you. Do as you wish. Go, run off to her. But ask yourself one thing: why is it, in spite of everything, she always runs back to me?”

Dio hung up, and Gyro stared straight ahead as he drove. Unbidden and distressingly vivid, the conversation he had with her after fixing her arm sprang to mind in the silence.

“Does he have feelings for you? Do you have feelings for him?”

The crack that had formed in Gyro’s chest, the one put there by the sight of her empty bed and split wider by the first phone call, splintered deep into a fault line across his heart. Agonizing served little purpose; more than anything, the most important thing was to make sure she was safe and alive. For all he knew, Dio could have just been trying to get under his skin. And she was with him, she had chosen him. Why even worry? She had already assured him multiple times that she hated the bastard. 

He had shaken Gyro, that was all. And he was already angry with her for being impulsive to the point of peril, it was easy to think irrationally.

With a brittle sigh, he made way toward the cathedral. 

Chapter Text

Dawn struck its hue across the dwindling night, its filtered haze settling blush pink and vivid tangerine over its death throes like a phoenix’s flame. For a long moment—too long, he could feel his skin growing hot—Dio stood there, drinking it in before sharply drawing the blackout curtains and returning to his bed. He and Diego had barely made it back to the mansion before sunrise, pacing across the floor and cursing that he had not yet achieved his goal of transcending his weakness to daylight. It was only once Hol Horse had called him and he was sure she was safe, that he had settled back into his room. But the dawn enticed him. Lately, he had missed the touch of morning on his skin, the pleasantness of its warmth a mere memory; night suited him far better and he knew it, but he did still have his moments.

It’s her, he thought to himself, frowning slightly. You miss the sun because it reminds you of her. Of everything you’ve been denied for far too long.

Collapsing to the bed in a heap, poise and grace abandoned in the wake of it all, he stared up at the deep blue canopy and forced himself to set aside his rage. Shifting his weight to the balls of his feet, Diego fidgeted nervously by the door, scratching at the back of his head and chewing on his bottom lip.

“Dio, we should get her—”

“—No need,” Dio cut him off, resolute. “She is in good hands. I trust Pucci completely.”

Diego’s expression hardened, a dark scowl muddying his features.

“She seemed fairly sure Pucci was after her as well.”

“For no reason,” Dio countered. Irritation crept into his voice, he had grown tired of repeatedly justifying his faith in his friend. “I’ve exhausted myself having to assure everyone from her, to Gyro, to you, that Pucci is trustworthy. Is my judgment in this regard not sufficient?”

“No,” Diego replied in a biting tone. “And you know damn well why it isn’t. You’ve never given anyone a reason to trust you.”

Dio ignored the insult, giving Diego a long look.

“Why are you still in here, anyway?”

“What do we do about Enyaba?”

“Ah,” Dio said bitterly, sitting up. “That. Well, I suppose it’s in my best interest to deal with her.”

It was strange, Dio had decided. Under the flesh bud, she should have had all sense of will stamped out; had he been too careless? Or was she simply strong-willed to the point of resisting his control? How she could formulate a plan beyond his reach baffled him, and had it been anyone other than her he may very well have been impressed by her tenacity. Never had he encountered such a spirit, and to his surprise he found himself almost mourning her loss. She had served him well, up to this point.

Centering himself, Dio closed his eyes, tapping into that deep recess of his psyche where the flesh bud was linked to Enya’s will. She was asleep, if the silence was anything to go by—he knew by its presence alone that she was not dead. 

For now.

Enyaba, he called, and he could feel her jolt into consciousness. Come.

It was not a summon, it was a command, one that she could not refute. Through their connection he felt her rise, felt the sluggish churn of her brain waking up, and the fear budding in her chest. Smiling to himself, he opened his eyes and stood.

“She’ll be here, soon,” he said quietly, his eyes locking onto Diego. “Stay. I’d like for you to see this.”

Diego gave him an awkward look. 

“…Why?”

“I suppose,” Dio mused idly, glancing back toward the rising dawn. “You’ve endeared yourself to me, finally.”

To his credit, Dio was being truthful—he had grown a bit of a soft spot for Diego in recent weeks. It was an act of treachery, in his eyes, that it had formed in the first place; nevertheless, it existed. It had began its infancy in that filthy parking lot, Diego sprinting to the car once Wang Chan’s zombies had been dispatched. He had thrown the car door open, panic widening his eyes and tightening his jaw as he pointed to her unconscious form slumped over in the back seat, demanding Dio to do something to help her. In a way, it was as if Diego embodied all of the concern he, too, had held for her in that moment, taking in how the color had drained from her face and the blood staining her jeans. His own little mirror, Dio had thought bitterly as he lifted her from the car, ordering him to secure them an Uber back to the mansion. Right down to whom they cared about most.

“Enyaba?” Diego grimaced. “God, no. I loathe the old bat.”

Dio bit back a smirk.

“Not Enyaba, no. Her.”

“She has a name, you know,” Diego rolled his eyes as he spoke. “You can say it, she’s not Voldemort.”

“So she does,” Dio chuckled. Pausing, he turned his attention back to Diego. “H.P. Do you love her?”

Diego’s lips puckered into a contemplative pout, his brow drawn sharply together. “I wouldn’t say it’s love yet, no. But I’m quite fond of them. Why do you ask?”

He had not missed the subtle correction there, and quietly acknowledged it.

“If anything were to happen to H.P, how far would you go to avenge them?”

Diego eyed him shrewdly, his jaw set with anger. “What exactly are you implying? Are you going to threaten me with them like you threatened Gyro?”

Dio shook his head. “I’m merely asking, given the circumstances.”

“Oh.” Blinking back surprise, Diego shrugged. “In all honesty? I’d stop at nothing to make whoever had hurt them suffer. I’d get my revenge on their behalf.”

“I believe,” Dio said with a small smile; he could feel Enya getting closer. “We’re alike in that, Diego.”

Diego quieted, looking off to the side. “You never answered me. You actually love her?”

Growing quiet himself, Dio crossed his arms, looking Diego straight in the eye. “Much to my immense displeasure, yes.”

Diego frowned, lost in thought.

“I don’t think she loves Gyro,” he said after a moment, and Dio bristled at the name. “We’ve talked about it before, I think she really only went for him because he was something normal. And to piss you off. But if you ask me, I think she’s always had feelings for you, too.”

Dio did not let on how that revelation had set him ablaze, for a brief moment allowing his heart to feel as if it were beating. Instead he focused on the growing presence of Enya Geil, ever closer; he could almost hear the squeal of tires on asphalt as she coasted down the 101. Her proximity left him almost giddy, gleaning what little he could from her thoughts.

She was furious, that much he knew. Her mutant offspring had been harmed, igniting what little maternal instinct dwelled in her dark heart, and she was enraged that she had failed. But beneath that fury existed an undercurrent of fear, the vague worry that she had been caught eking its way past her anger.

Good. Suffer.

“She’s almost here,” Dio said softly. “Meet her at the door, don’t let her catch on that we know.”

“Right,” Diego nodded. “Dio? What exactly are you going to do to her once she does get here?”

“That, Diego,” he replied with a devilish smile. “Remains to be seen.”

Diego left the room, and Dio readied himself. Dressing in his most opulent splendor, he moved the high-backed emerald chair near the fireplace to face the door. Once he was content with its placement he sat down, crossing one leg over the other and opening the book he had left at the small end table. The goal was to appear nonchalant, to lull her into a false sense of security; a king, calling forth one of his most valued knights that he was sure had committed treason. 

When Diego did finally bring her upstairs fifteen minutes later, closing the door behind them as he slipped into the room after Enya, Dio was ready.

“Enyaba,” Dio drawled, setting the book aside and resting his hand against his cheek as he lounged in his makeshift throne. He smirked, letting his gaze trail slowly over her face, quietly reveling in the way her eyes darted back and forth and savoring the apprehension that wrung between her two right hands.

“Yes, Lord Dio?” Enya wheezed, voidlike mouth wide open.

She was nervous.

Dio could feel it, emanating from her like heat and exuding from her every pore. His smirk tightened into a rigid facsimile of a smile; how he had so desired to rip her limb from limb then and there. But he could not. He had questions for her, first.

He kept his tone even.

“Why do you serve me?”

“I wish to see you rise to your full potential,” Enya answered, her voice sickeningly sweet despite the slight tremor within it. “To see you change this world, remake it in your image.”

From the door, Diego watched her coldly, and Dio leaned forward.

“And what lengths would you go to ensure my success in that endeavor, Enyaba?”

Blinking owlishly at Dio, her mouth opened and closed, contorting around silent words that never left her.

“Why, what do you mean, Lord Dio?”

Dio raised an eyebrow.

“Are you not my most devoted servant? My companion, who gifted me the Arrow and the Eyes? Who brought to me the Stone Mask necessary for my ascension into godhood?”

“I—of course!” Enya nodded fervently, wild white hair billowing with each sharp uptick of her skull.

“I simply wish to know the deepest extent of devotion my most loyal servant holds. So what is it, Enyaba? How far would you go?”

“As far as necessary, Lord Dio.”

“Surely,” he crooned, sitting up straight. “You would never do anything to upset me, would you?”

“Of course not,” she rasped. “That is the last thing I would want.”

Dropping all pretense, Dio stood.

“And not once did you think,” he said quietly, his voice bottled lightning; tranquil rage moved him forward. “That defying me with some insipid little murder plot concocted behind my back would not upset me? That such duplicity, such treachery, would not be rewarded with death? How fruitless you endeavors were, Enyaba. She lives, rescued by Hol Horse and Pucci.”

Dio had expected groveling. He had expected begging, pleading. That she would throw herself to his feet and beseech him for mercy that he would not give.

He had not expected laughter.

“Of course that slimy little priest would take all the glory for himself. I should’ve known.”

Dio raised an eyebrow; internally, alarm bore down on him like a landslide.

“Explain yourself,” he demanded, advancing on Enya.

Enya’s cracked lips formed a wide smile, bulbous eyes wild with malice. Pointing a gnarled finger at Dio, she shook her head slowly.

“You’ve been careless in who you put your trust into, Lord Dio. If she’s with Pucci, she’s as good as dead,” Enya spat.

Diego looked to Dio in horror, and dread pooled in his gut.

As good as dead? Had I been wrong?  No. Betrayal, I would expect from anyone else. But Pucci’s heart is pure.

“Father Pucci worked under my orders—”

“—No, he didn’t,” Enyaba interrupted, almost giddy. “He came to me before he went to you. The same night you appeared to him in the mausoleum, he came to me. Like I said, you were too trusting, Lord Dio. And it will be her undoing.”

Tilting her head, she cackled. “A good thing, too. She hinders you. The priest thinks the same.”

***

Pucci smiled as he led you and Hol Horse across the grounds, speaking at length about the olive grove outside as a symbol of peace. Affable and polite, he spoke in a calm, measured voice, inquiring about your welfare once he had noticed you wincing as you walked.

“We’re headed toward my office, I’ll patch you up there. I do apologize for the long walk.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you said faintly, preoccupied. Something was wrong, and you could feel it. But what? Was it the way his placid smile never reached his eyes once his stare moved toward you? Was it the stiffness of his gait as you walked the halls, drawing ever nearer to his office? You could not shake it, the idea that misfortune was close at hand. Hol Horse, for his part, seemed oblivious to it all. Equally affable, he spoke lightly, an easygoing smile curling its way around the cigarette that appeared permanently affixed to his mouth. His lack of discernment only amplified your unease; you had expected the sharpshooter to be sharp in judgment.

But what if I’m just being overly paranoid? Pucci never did give me a concrete reason to suspect him.

He stopped outside a door, his expression almost apologetic.

“My office,” he said quietly, gesturing to the door. “Is through here, just down a set of stairs. Will you be all right?”

“Think so,” you said lightly. The wounds J. Geil had inflicted were almost entirely superficial, he had mainly struck areas that would bleed more upon contact. Despite your assurance, Hol Horse crouched beside you, slipping your arm over his shoulders to help you walk. Smiling gratefully at the man, you allowed him to help you down the stairs, following Pucci.

At the bottom, stepping into a hall made of marble and quiet as death, you became certain your suspicions were warranted. Walking through it, you noticed the plaques fixed on the walls in a grid, engraved with names and dates.

A mausoleum?

“It’s through here,” Pucci said kindly. 

“Your office is in a mausoleum?” Suspicion underscored your tone, and Hol Horse tensed beside you.

“I tend to the ossuary in my off hours,” Pucci explained, coming to a stop. At your chest, your phone went off, a jarring vibration rumbling across a scabbed over cut. While his back remained turned, you took a quick peek at the screen, a text from Diego lighting up beneath flakes of dried blood.

You were right about Pucci. He’s working with Enyaba. Get out of there, now.

With a sharp inhale, you tucked your phone back into its hiding place, and Pucci turned.

“It is my understanding that you do not have a Stand, correct? Although Dio provided you with an Arrow, you did not have the opportunity to use it?”

“That’s true,” you said tightly, your gaze steeling as you met Pucci’s eyes. He nodded, glancing over at Hol Horse.

“But you do. Emperor. Your Stand is your gun, and you control its bullets and aim.”

“S’right,” Hol Horse replied with a nod, apprehension taking root in the gunman’s features.

“Lord Dio himself gifted me with the ability of a Stand. My Stand is Whitesnake. Do you know what it can do?”

Hol Horse shook his head, carefully slipping out from under your arm. His hand slowly panned toward the gun at his belt.

“Something’s off,” Hol Horse whispered.

“I fucking told you,” you shot back under your breath.

Beside you, Hol Horse gave a start and drew his gun, his stare fixed at something you could not see. A shot rang out, bounding off the walls of the mausoleum and sending your ears ringing. Falling to your knees, you clamped your hands over your ears with a wince, watching through the corner of your eye as Hol Horse stumbled back. Genuine fear shone bright azure in his eyes and he fired another shot.

“My Stand is capable of many things,” Pucci said, his voice carrying over the blaring ring. “Long range distance and combat, creating an acid to break down and digest its targets. But its greatest ability is that of extracting Memory and Stand DISCs. Allow me to demonstrate.”

Hol Horse leapt back, cursing loudly as something unseen advanced; the crushing weight of a Stand’s presence bore down on you, and you stumbled to your feet. A cry left Hol Horse, and his eyes dulled. In horror, you watched as a CD ejected slowly from his forehead and he fell back, seemingly lifeless. Then the CD was pulled out gently by a hand unseen, and the invisible form of Whitesnake carried the disc over to Pucci.

“Well,” he said with a small smile, tucking the CD into his coat pocket. “That went easier than I expected.”

There was little time to deliberate or panic. Running would prove fruitless—who knew how far Pucci’s Stand could reach, and armed with the knowledge of what it was capable of rendered it out of the question. Without a Stand or another way to fight, you were helpless. You had to move quickly; you had to get that disc.

But who knows if it’ll help Hol Horse? If I return it he might not even wake up.

I have no other choice.

Charging forward, a brief glimpse of surprise shone bright in Pucci’s eyes as you threw your weight into him, knocking him to the ground. Using his shock to your advantage, you reached into his coat pocket for the disc, taking it and sprinting as far back as you could manage. The rustle of fabric and scuff of footsteps against marble told you that he was rising to his feet, and you held up the DISC. A gun was emblazoned across its front, the same gun Hol Horse carried.

Is this his Stand?

From across the hall, Pucci laughed.

“Perhaps I spoke too soon. I did not expect a fight, though I should have. I’m well aware of your victory against Wang Chan.”

There was no time. 

Pressing the rim of the DISC to your forehead, the peculiar sensation of something cutting through your skin without pain rippled through you; then, the peculiar feeling of a power beyond anything you could comprehend settled in. Focusing all of your attention into your hand, you concentrated hard, visualizing the gun in your grasp.

Come on, come on. Don’t fail me now.

Something heavy and metallic weighed down your palm, and in your hand sat Emperor.

A victorious smile pushed up at your cheeks and you held the gun, its body almost natural in your grasp. The quick flash of movement in your periphery caught your attention, and you caught a glimpse of a creature in monochrome darting past. On its head rest a headpiece similar to a crown, a black mask adorning the bottom of its mouth. Sparsely clothed, something similar to the word “GACT” repeated along dark horizontal stripes running across its body. The creature looked like an executioner with melting eyes, eyes that were undeniably trained on you.

“You’ve inserted Hol Horse’s Stand DISC. Interesting,” Pucci called. “I take it you can see Whitesnake now. You can try to shoot at my Stand all you like, it will do nothing. Were Hol Horse conscious, he would attest to that.”

“I don’t need to shoot Whitesnake,” you yelled over your shoulder. Firing Emperor, you willed the bullet toward Pucci. “I just need to kill you.”

Pucci laughed, and you could feel it as the bullet ricocheted off its course. Eyes trained on Whitesnake, you noticed the way its hand had shot sharply upward, held stiff as it fixed you with a cold expression of glaring hate.

“I understand now, how you blinded Lord Dio. You have spirit. Perhaps if you had not chosen the wrong side, you would have become someone great under his tutelage. But all you’ve done is set him off from his path. Lord Dio’s mission to remake this world in His image is paramount, and I cannot have you derail it any longer.”

From above, a door barreled open, and loud footsteps thundered down the stairs.

“(Y/N),” Gyro yelled. “Where are you?”

At his voice, your heart leapt into a panicked thrum, and you did not allow your sight to leave Whitesnake as you called out to him.

“Gyro, run,” you screamed. “Pucci, he’s—”

“—Ah. Gyro Zeppeli,” Pucci intoned. “A noble effort on your part, but you were two steps behind.”

Whitesnake disappeared, seemingly melting into the wall. Firing another shot and willing it to hit Pucci, you allowed yourself to smile as you heard him grunt. By chance, the bullet had struck, tearing through his leg.

“Holy shit, do you have a gun?” Gyro shouted. “Nice—who the fuck is this guy?”

“Gyro, stop wasting time and get Pucci!”

“Of course, bambina,” called Gyro, a haughty tone amplifying his voice. “After all, what sort of—”

A choked cry broke through his words, and the sound of a body hitting marble thudded across the hall.

“Ball Breaker,” Pucci mused. “A Stand that shows promise but was otherwise underutilized by its user. How interesting.”

“No,” you screamed, rounding out from your hiding spot. On the floor next to Hol Horse lay Gyro, eyes fixed upward in an unseeing gaze, splayed out against the pale stone. At the sight of him, anguish tore up through you from the pit of your stomach, and you charged toward Pucci.

“I’ll kill you,” you bellowed, firing another shot at Pucci. He smiled, shaking his head and holding up the Stand DISC.

“But then how will you save Gyro?”

Stopping dead in your tracks, you allowed your hand to falter. At the calf of Pucci’s slacks lay a small tear, the flesh exposed beneath. The bullet had only grazed him, a small wound visible. Blood wetted the fabric from the wound downward; otherwise, Pucci appeared unhurt.

Trepidation froze your blood, and you eyed Pucci.

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged, taking a step forward.

“Without their Stand, its user loses the will to live. They’ll allow their muscles to atrophy, their breathing will slow. Eventually, their body will stop working. And they’ll die. Make no mistake, you will die today. The question is, how many innocents will you allow to die with you?”

The question served to paralyze you. Staring down at Gyro and Hol Horse, you felt overcome. Had you not strived this whole time to protect anyone whose lives had stood in the way of Dio’s will? And you had failed. Diego, the unfortunate couple; now, Hol Horse and Gyro. Hol Horse had only tried to protect you, and Gyro had been dragged down with you through selfishness alone. Looking down at his face, beautifully eerie in its stillness, guilt weighed heavy on your back. Beneath it lay a strange ache, one worse than a broken heart and filled with something unnamed, something that terrified you in its enormity. Kneeling beside him, you took his hand.

“What do I do?”

You had asked Gyro, but Pucci answered.

“Allow me to take Hol Horse’s Stand DISC back, and surrender to your fate willingly. They’ll live. Once I’m sure you are dealt with, I will return their DISCs.”

If they live, they can get Dio. I don’t have a choice. But I might still have a chance of making this out alive.

“Fine,” you said quietly, not looking at Pucci. “Take it.”

Whitesnake loomed in front of you, hand raised. Pressing his fingers into your forehead, you felt that same strange rippling sensation as the DISC pushed itself out, and you fell back. Tenuously clinging to consciousness, you watched as Pucci advanced, and soon he was standing above you.

“As I thought,” he said quietly. “Your sense of guilt is your greatest weakness.”

You surrendered to darkness.

When you came to, the first thing you noticed was that you were in a box. Silk brushed against your skin, puckered up around the box like a stack of pillows surrounding you. The second thing you had noticed was that you could not move, something heavy stinging at your skin and bearing down on your body like cement. Opening your eyes, you looked around; you were not in a box, after all.

You were in a coffin.

Pucci stood above you, his expression almost mournful. With a frown, he peered down at you from the corner of his eye.

“It goes against my convictions to kill you. Not just my religious principles, but it defies my devotion to Lord Dio. But it must be done, so that his mission may be completed. I won’t pretend to know your denomination or faith, or if you have one at all. Nonetheless, I will pray for you at the hour of your death.”

Closing his eyes, Pucci lifted his face skyward, his arms outstretched in supplication.

“The Lord is my Shepherd,” he rumbled. “I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures, he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul, he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil, my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

You could only watch helplessly as he shut the casket lid. 

The casket lumbered upward, the sound of machinery whirring in the unearthly silence. You were being pushed forward, the sound of wood scraping against metal and stone echoing down your spine. Just beneath it was the sound of footsteps retreating, pausing halfway down the hall. Then the rustle of fabric, and Pucci’s soft sigh.

“I am a man of my word,” he said loud enough for you to hear. “As promised, I’ve returned their Stand DISCs. They should come to shortly. Though I doubt it will help.”

The footsteps returned, and the faint scrape of stone being fixed into place filled the silence. Followed by the sound of a trigger being engaged, plastic dragging across the walls, it dawned on you what Pucci had done.

He had sealed you alive in a crypt.

Air would be scarce. Mentally saying a prayer of thanks to Joseph and Caesar, you held your breath for as long as you could—training had bumped you up to three and a half minutes, a feat you would have once considered impossible. Holding on until your lungs felt as if they would burst, you exhaled and drew another breath.

“I do apologize, again,” Pucci said softly, his voice muffled by the stone. “But I am certain the Lord and Lord Dio will forgive my transgression.”

Pucci left, and you began to breathe. The weight of your phone pressed gently on your chest, and you fought against the tight space to reach it.

Call Dio. I have to call Dio.

Hastily, you unlocked your phone and called him, breathing a sigh of relief when he answered on the first ring.

“Dio,” you spoke softly, conserving as much air as you could. “Pucci, he—”

“—I know,” he interrupted, terse. “What happened?”

“I don’t have much time,” you breathed. “He put me in a crypt. I can try to hold my breath as long as I can, but I can’t guarantee anything. Gyro and Hol Horse are here, they’re unconscious.”

“You’re what?” A strange panic took root in his voice; instantly, you understood. He had thought of his own time interred in a coffin in the Atlantic. “Stop talking, you’ll—”

“—No,” you whispered. “I need you to hear this.”

Dio quieted, waiting for you to speak.

But what to say? It was not as if Dio could help, not with the sun risen. There was nothing he could do.

But you need to tell him how you feel, at least. If you don’t make it, he might as well know.

“I wish things had been different,” you said in a quiet voice. “That I had met you when you weren’t cruel, if a time like that had ever existed. I know, Dio. I figured it out this morning. And if things were different, maybe I would have loved you too. I think part of me might have even started to, at one point. You should know that. I’m sorry. I…I chose Gyro, but I’d be lying if I didn’t wish sometimes it was different. I needed you to know that.”

A small gasp left Dio, one of shock and surprise. 

You went on.

“I don’t expect you to be the knight in shining armor this time. But if I don’t make it, don’t do whatever you’re planning. Stop looking for the Red Stone of Aja. And don’t kill Gyro, okay?”

You hung up, holding your breath. 

I’m not going down without a fight.

Then, focusing all the strength you could muster, you began to fight against the coffin lid.

Chapter Text

How dare he.

Seething, Dio stared at the phone, malevolence seeping citrine through his narrowed gaze. Pucci’s defiance alone had, though he was loath to admit it, wounded him; entombing her alive in a mausoleum read less as poetic irony and more as an unforgivable taunt. He had confided in Pucci the agony of being trapped in that coffin at the bottom of the ocean, nearly driven mad by the isolation, and now he had the gall to inflict that upon another? On her? On his very own heart, made flesh and blood?

Before, such sentiment would have disgusted him—in the face of her demise, it meant little.

How dare he.

Rage gripped him in a merciless chokehold; it blinded him, searing red across his vision. In his hand, the sound of glass shattering reverberated through the early morning light, temporarily bringing him back to his bedroom. The screen of his phone had cracked, and Dio found himself surprised the thing had not shattered completely in his grasp.

From the door, Diego paled.

“What do we do now?” Quiet, his voice was little more than a shaky exhale, and he watched Dio helplessly.

Dio did not answer. Instead he turned to Enya, pure hate radiating from him like sunlight. Advancing closer, he closed in on her like a lion cornering a wounded gazelle, eager to feast.

“What a shame,” he said with a spiteful grin, oozing a charm that he did not feel. “You were useful, up until this point. Were it not for you, I would know nothing of Stands, let alone have The World.”

Nor would I have known about the Corpse Parts, though I only have the Eyes. But it matters little. I can find them without you, Enyaba.

“I’m almost sad that I’m going to kill you.”

Diego gave a slight nod of agreement, looking toward Enya with a resolute expression. Spluttering, the old crone raised her hands in a beseeching plea, her hideous eyes darting from Diego to Dio in a silent plea for amnesty.

“But I—Lord Dio, was I not a faithful servant? Why—I only—”

He did not let her finish. 

A wet squelching noise reverberated through the room as he severed the connection to his flesh bud, closely accompanied by the sound of liquid and wood hitting the rug with a muted thump. Warmth splattered down Dio’s front and to his left, Diego jumped back with his arms raised as a shield.

“You could’ve given me a heads up,” Diego groaned, inspecting the blood that had scored the cerulean wool of his sweater. “This is dry-clean only.”

With an inelegant lift of his shoulders, Dio gestured to a mound of fabric and bone that had once been Enya Geil. “My apologies, I’ll buy you a new one. It truly is a pity, she was rather useful.”

His nose crinkled with displeasure and he glowered at her corpse, the blood pouring from it seeping into the rug.

“And now I have to replace my rug, as well. This really has not been my morning, has it Diego?”

Curiosity took hold of Diego and walked to the misshapen bundle, taking a closer look. Blood poured from every orifice on her head in jagged spurts; her eyes, nose, ears, and mouth all stained with it, it pooled around her head and crawled outward, creeping toward the toes of his shoes as he approached. Nudging her body with his foot, he looked up at Dio.

“How’d you do that?”

Chuckling, Dio waved a dismissive hand toward her corpse.

“Why don’t we attribute it to being one of the many perks of being an apex predator?”

Taking a step back, Diego kept his gaze trained on Dio, determination steeling the deep blue of his eyes.

“What do we do now?” Diego repeated.

Dio glanced past him, toward the blackout curtains over the window. An idea dawned on him, one that was far more dangerous than he wished to subject himself to; seeing no other choice, he strolled toward it, carefully stepping over Enya’s body.

“We go to the Cathedral,” he answered quietly. Befuddlement drew his mouth slack and he raised a questioning finger, pointing to the window.

“How? You can’t go outside—it’s daylight, Dio.”

“Is it? I didn’t notice,” he said dryly, coming to a stop in front of the curtain. 

With a sharp swipe of his arm, he ripped the it from the window and draped himself within it, fashioning it into a makeshift cloak. Beneath it his skin faintly stung, the reach of the sun weak beneath the heavy fabric. But it served to protect him all the same, and though the sun poured in undaunted he did not entirely feel its danger. His back turned to the light, he spoke to Diego, a smug smile resting on his lips as he tilted his head.

“Isn’t it interesting, how far innovation has taken mankind? Even the sun can be countered. Now, Diego. Get the keys.”

With another nod, Diego turned to open the door, pausing halfway through. Rounding back toward Dio, he pointed to Enya’s body.

“What about her?”

Pensive, he approached Diego, stepping over her once more and sparing a slightly pained look toward the blood that had now ruined the rug. He would have to buy another; a greater inconvenience to him than her death itself, he had procured that one from a museum that did not know it was one of the few items that had survived the Joestar Mansion Fire unscathed. 

“Leave her, for now,” he said after a moment. “I’ll have Ice dispatch of her body. Let’s go.”

“Shall we take the Bugatti?” Diego looked almost hopeful as he opened the door, and Dio pulled the makeshift cloak down further over his face. Recalling all too vividly how Diego had driven the car like a madman, laughing and whooping wildly as it accelerated to unfathomable speeds, Dio sighed.

“Yes,” he said with a small note of resignation; he had not enjoyed the experience. “Drive it across the sidewalks if you must. We have little time to spare.”

***

Pain radiated hot from the tips of your fingers, the nails cracked and torn. Blood streaked its way across the dimpled satin lining of the coffin, oil-dark in the impenetrable black. Though lightheaded and dizzy, you pressed on; air was growing thin.

I can’t die like this. I can’t.

Outside, the scuffle of people rising to their feet caught your attention, cutting through the haze as you paused.

“Who’re you?” Hol Horse slurred, his voice faint beyond the stone.

”Gyro Zeppeli,” Gyro replied, equally sluggish. “You?”

“Hol Horse. Where are Pucci and the girl?”

“I don’t…” Gyro trailed off, the unmistakable thud of his footsteps drawing nearer. “Oh my god.”

Then, in a tremulous whisper, he uttered a single word that threatened to undo you, his voice terrifyingly near.

“Amore?”

The staccato rap of knuckles gently knocking against stone followed, coming in threes. 

“Gyro,” you croaked, his name a weak sob that broke from your chest. Tears sprang in the corner of your eyes, blurring the darkness. “Help me.”

“Oh my God,” he repeated, and he smacked his palm against the marble. “I—fuck, okay—I’m going to get you out, don’t worry! I’ll figure it out, okay? Just—just hold your breath as long as you can, I need you to keep holding your breath.”

Even as you drew in another shaky breath, the sinking realization that it would be fruitless dawned on you. Inside the crypt, the stale air had grown perilously scarce; in your fight, you had not noticed just how little remained. Crying freely, you smacked a weak hand against the lid of the coffin, nearly breathing out a sob as fresh agony jolted through your forearm.

Faces danced across the back of your eyelids in a disorienting whirl, a merry-go-round of goodbyes you wished you could say. Diego first, that cocky grin etched deep into his features, standing beside Silver Bullet with his arms folded over his chest. Gyro, his tousled hair framing his face, eyes like chrysolite sparkling in his shadowy room on New Year’s Eve. Joseph with his absurdly youthful laugh and too-tight hugs. Your parents, your friends.

Dio.

Dio, with those strange eyes that changed like the tide, his languid smile as he tilted his head back against the beat-up leather of your back seat. That infuriatingly smug smirk of his, how proud he had looked as he carried you up the driveway back to the mansion. Waking up beside him in that mothball-strewn basement with a blanket draped over the television, the demure press of his lips against your forehead as you had drifted off to sleep.

All of them, just beyond the marble that sealed you away from the living, bringing you dangerously closer to the dead.

It was almost a reprieve, the hazy blackness that tore at your vision. In its embrace it promised deliverance—an escape from his face and all the conflict that it carried with it. 

A shot rang out, curiously muted as it bounced off the stone.

“The fuck would that do?” Gyro shouted. “You’ll just shoot her!”

“There’s a crack in the marble,” Hol Horse replied. “I’m making a weak point.”

“I like the way you think,” Gyro said after a moment. 

The heavy thud of fists began to strike at the stone, reverberating through the cramped space in a crashing rhythm. Its epicenter lay to the left; like sonar, you attempted to hone in on it, hope bubbling up in your chest. A despairing moan left Gyro, and the pounding ceased as he fell to his knees.

“It’s not working.”

The bubble burst.

“You’ve gotta keep trying—here.” Panic heightened Hol Horse’s voice and another shot blared across the mausoleum.

You closed your eyes, cursing Pucci with halting breaths.

***

The Bugatti screeched to a stop in front of the massive cathedral as sirens rang in the distance, its back end whirling into a semicircle before coming to rest. The scream of rubber pealing out against asphalt pierced through the quiet morning, causing several dawdling pedestrians to jump in surprise nearby. Dio paid them little mind; they were inconsequential. Wrapping his hand against the door handle, he paused, the daylight outside his most daunting enemy.

Diego put the car in park, grimacing as he stepped out.

“What do we do about the police?”

“Kill them,” Dio answered, getting out of the car. “Obviously.”

“We can’t very well murder half of the LAPD.”

“Try me.”

The two of them sprinted to the door and into the cathedral, suddenly awash in the sandy beige of its pale stone walls and light wood floors. Instinctively Dio moved toward the mausoleum, the path to it somewhat familiar despite the disorienting experience of seeing it in daylight. To his fury, he could not pick up on any sign of Pucci—by now, the traitor had most likely vacated the grounds.

Moving with unnatural speed, Dio reached the door to the mausoleum and threw it open, casting aside the curtain as he raced down the steps. Down the hall were Hol Horse and Gyro, both of them looking up in shock as he rounded the corner.

“Mr. Dio?” Hol Horse blinked, incredulity rooting him to the spot. Next to him, a mix of relief and hatred contorted Gyro’s features, and he rose to his feet.

“The fucking priest buried her alive.”

Dio eyed him with clear disdain.

“And you choose now to say ‘I told you so’? Strange, considering the woman you love is inches from death. Move.”

Gyro stood defiant, glaring up at Dio as he scowled.

“What are you going to do?”

“What you couldn’t,” Dio replied, his tone acidic. “Save her. Now get out of my way before I eviscerate you and put you in her place.”

Hol Horse pulled him back, giving Gyro a stern look. From the end of the hall, Diego’s footsteps barreled down the staircase. Nearly tripping, he skittered into a slant, slapping his hand against the wall of the mausoleum to steady himself and catch his breath. Looking over toward Gyro and Hol Horse, he gave a weak wave, and Hol Horse’s stare honed in immediately on the blood splattered across Diego’s torso and arms before swiveling back over to the blood decorating Dio’s front. Gyro’s eyes followed, his indignation giving way to genuine fear, and Dio rolled his eyes. Tuning them out, he listened for her heartbeat, relief surging through him when he detected its weak rhythm.

She was alive.

Barely.

Her heart rate alone told him that she had only recently went unconscious, her breathing shallow and erratic in the minimal air afforded. He scanned the hall, settling on a crypt that looked freshly sealed, incongruous to its surroundings and riddled with bullet holes. From there he could pick out her heartbeat, faint and irregular, almost calling out to him like a siren’s song.

There you are.

Were he to hazard a guess he would say she had been there nearly an hour, holding her breath as long as she could between gasps. For the first time since he had sent her to the Joestars, he became relieved that she had trained in Hamon; at least she could hold her breath longer than the average person. He could feel the scarcity of the oxygen inside the tomb as if it was the same he breathed, and urgency took hold of his gait as he moved closer.

Had he been anything other than what he was, had he been an ordinary man, saving her would be impossible. But from the moment he had drew his first breath, Dio had never been ordinary, and with the abilities he held at his disposal he had far surpassed it. Now, he had his Stand, and with it he had honed an incredible power; one that defied the very laws of the world he had existed within and intended to surpass. One that would buy her more precious time, giving her the smallest fighting chance.

Coming to a stop, he crossed his arms.

“The World,” he said softly, and from behind him Gyro drew in a sharp breath.

The life around him brought itself to a grinding halt, and Dio smiled.

“Five more seconds,” he said to himself, and his Stand charged forth.

Laying siege to the sealed crypt in a barrage of relentless fists, the marble crumbled like ash beneath its might. With ease it had broken the barrier between her and freedom, and it had brought the casket down from the crypt to the floor. Prying open the lid, it paused, and Dio sprinted toward her.

Three more seconds.

Her eyes were closed, her fingers stained with blood. The white satin lining above her lay shredded and raked with scratches; she had tried to break the wood and get herself out. For a moment, pride overcame him at the sight before he set it aside. He could be proud of her later, when this was all over. When she was breathing, when she was living, when she was safe and when she was his.

In her state, there was not much he could do. Turning her to save her was out of the question, she would never forgive him. He could not simply leave her there, either; she had been brought too close to the brink of death.

He had to get creative.

“Time resumes,” he murmured, looking down at her.

With The World he took hold of her heart, employing rapid compressions around it to force it to work. Relenting only when her breathing grew steadier and color returned to her cheeks, he let go as her eyelids began to flutter open; using his Stand once more, he spent the precious five seconds in frozen time to move Diego closer on the off chance that she had seen his face, slipping away with a second to spare.

Around him, the world began to move again, and the sound of panicked running echoed through the mausoleum’s halls. In the shadows, he waited, still as the marble surrounding him, listening as Diego rushed to her side. How he had longed to be there with them, the desire to be near her a searing ache like a brand at his chest. He had wanted to ask her if what she had said was true, if she had ever cared for him the way he had cared for her, if she could love him as he loved her. But such theatrics were beyond him, for now; now, he had to focus on Pucci, on obtaining the Red Stone of Aja to prevent anything like this from happening ever again. Her pleading be damned, he had opened himself up to far too many weak points. This all had only served to prove it. Taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, he made his way toward the opposite corner of the mausoleum, one equally forgotten to time.

He had work to do.

But for now, it would need to wait. There were hiding places in the mausoleum that Did knew well. He had chanced the sunlight enough for his liking, and full dark felt an eternity away. Seeking out a utility closet near the crypt, he sealed himself in and tamped down his displeasure, wrinkling his nose at the stale reek of old water and cleaning products wafting from the tattered ropes of an old mop dangling over an elevated drain.

Let Gyro be the hero for now, he could take what was his when Pucci lay dead at his feet and humanity was irrefutably subjugated by his might.

He had never been much of a hero, anyway.

***

For a moment, you had thought you were hallucinating. You were in the coffin, the empty shadows smothering you within its confines, surrender becoming ever sweeter on your tongue. Then, you were blinking, fresh air cycling through your lungs and life returning to you in frantic squeezes at your heart, and Dio was above you. Concern threw his features into sharp relief, rage and cold determination lurking beneath it, hair like spun gold falling over you in soft waves like a curtain. Then he smiled, the sight of it dazzling, and your heart shot up to the roof of your mouth.

Dio? No.

There was no way it could have been him. The sun was out, he would have been burnt to ash before he could make his way out the front door. Closing your eyes tightly, you opened them again and found yourself face to face with Diego. Behind him hovered Gyro and Hol Horse, the gunman’s face a picture of pure confusion, and Gyro smiled in relief before swiftly succumbing to consternation.

“Hey, guys,” you said weakly, waving with your ruined hand.

A storm of angry boots hitting marble came flooding through the hall and the four of you looked in unison to its source, finding a group of police officers encroaching like a mob. The sight of it brought forth memories of Wang Chan and his zombies, and you bit back a bitter laugh.

One of them, a man around your age at the forefront of the throng, stopped, eyes wide.

“What the hell happened here?”

“About time you lot showed up,” Diego said loudly, standing up. “Our friend here was buried alive.”

“Wait—hold on, the Bugatti—”

“Forget the bloody Bugatti,” Diego roared. “Can’t you idiots see she needs help? One of you dolts, use your radio to call in an ambulance. Now.”

Bugatti? What the fuck?

“Diego,” you said quietly. “What is he talking about?”

“I may have broken several traffic laws,” he said under his breath with a wink. “But that’s not important right now.”

Straightening up, he spoke louder. “What’s important is getting a goddamn paramedic here, and I don’t hear a single one of you making the call. Is this what the citizens of Los Angeles pay for with their tax dollars? Layabout policemen? Do your bloody jobs!”

Beside you, Gyro pulled out his cellphone.

“Joseph,” he said after a moment, his voice faint. “I need you to do me a favor—yes, she’s fine, I’m with her, can you listen for a sec? I need you to call in a favor to the Speedwagon Foundation and get the police off of Diego’s back, and get them to transfer her out of the hospital when she’s admitted. Some shit went down.”

Though muffled, you could still clearly make out the flat “what” that Joseph had met his demands with, Gyro sighing in exasperation.

“It’s a long story. And—oh, do not tell Caesar. About any of this.”

He hung up, looking toward Diego.

“Move.”

Diego scoffed, fixing Gyro with a disdainful glance.

“Oh, piss off, Gyro—”

“—I’m a fucking doctor, Diego, move.”

Gyro did not give him time to react before shoving him off to the side and opening the casket, lifting you out gingerly with his mouth set in a thin line. Pressing two fingers beneath the base of your jaw, he looked off to the side, his features sharp in concentration. For a solid minute he counted under his breath, his eyes narrowing deeper into slits with every number.

“Pulse is still weak.”

Moving his hand from your jaw and holding up three fingers, he looked down at you.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three,” you replied, dazed.

“What’s your full name?”

Confusion furrowed your brow and you tilted your head to the side as you looked up at him. In the background, you picked up on the voices of Hol Horse and an officer, the latter asking him questions that you did not have the energy to concentrate on.

“Gyro, you already know that.”

“Humor me, bambina,” he said, his voice stern.

With a sigh, you gave it. 

“What’s mine?”

“Iulius Caesar Zeppeli,” you answered, and Gyro winced as Diego let out a loud snort.

“Brought that on myself. What’s my date of birth?”

“July sixteenth, nineteen-ninety…three?”

Gyro nodded.

“What’s the street I live on?”

“Middleridge Lane, why are you asking me so many questions?”

The look on Gyro’s face made sense as he glared down at you. He was pissed.

“To make sure you’re coherent and stable,” he answered, his tone icy. “You were fucking buried alive, you do realize that right? Like, I have to make sure you’re not still on the verge of death.”

“I had no idea, that’s so crazy,” you said dryly, bristling at his tone.

Why the fuck is he mad? He didn’t get sealed into a—oh. Oh.

You remembered now. He knew you were going to see Dio.

That’s fair. I deserve that.

“Where’s Pucci?” Sitting up, you did not resist as Gyro pushed you back down.

“Fuck if I know,” he answered.

“You’re mad at me.”

“Of course I’m fucking mad at you,” Gyro said under his breath. “But we’ll talk about it later.”

Next to you, Diego shifted awkwardly where he sat, scratching the back of his head. A sluggish weight settled over you, and you sighed.

“I’m tired,” you whispered.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Gyro ordered. “Stay with me.”

Diego rose to his feet, and you watched as he met the officers head on.

The silence was uncomfortably loud as it pressed down on you, and you broke beneath its weight.

“Are you going to break up with me?”

Gyro paused, his eyes trained on a spot just over the officers’ heads, craning his neck slightly as he scanned the crowd. Stone faced, his jaw tight, he did not once let his attention waver from the spot. He was looking for someone, you realized. 

“I don’t know,” he said finally, defeat heavy in his voice. 

He set you down gently and joined Diego, and you took a long look at the coffin beside you. Pain returned gradually to your fingers and to every little cut J. Geil had left, and in a daze you lifted your right hand to your eyes. Three of your nails had split down the middle, the nail on your index finger missing entirely. Your thumbnail remained mostly intact, if not caked with blood, and your fingers were stained bright red. Exhaustion followed quickly on pain’s heels, enticingly sweet in its bid for sleep. Closing your eyes, you ignored Gyro and let it enfold you.

Sleep, you had decided as you began to drift off, was better than dealing with whatever the fuck was going on right now.

Chapter Text

The faint clicking and whirring of machines cut through the swathe of dreamless sleep, reaching for you with a steel-like hand and wrenching you into consciousness. An IV tube had been hooked up to your arm, sticky pads at your chest sending a map of your heartbeat to a screen behind the drip. The room you had woken up in was decidedly nicer than you had expected. With great care, you sat up, gaining your bearings and taking a sweeping glance across your surroundings. Nestled in the center of a very large bed, propped up against pillows that felt like heaven at your back, fading natural light filtered in bright from the massive windows and bathed the entirety of the space in gentle gold. It was strangely familiar, the interior—all mahogany panels and flat white walls, with deep brown wood flooring and a thick white rug. Raising an appreciative brow as you clambered closer to clarity, you afforded yourself a small smile.

This is a nice ass hospital.

Then you realized where you were, and you groaned.

It was not a hospital at all, but one of the rooms in Dio’s mansion, one you had not been in yet—avoiding the space at every opportunity had been a self-imposed must since the day he had brought you here, and barring the common spaces and Dio’s room, you had rarely ventured past the guest house. A giant television sat above a dormant fireplace playing a show you did not recognize, the logo for the BBC network faint in the right hand corner. Looking to your side, you found Diego slumped over in a chair, head tilted back and mouth open wide as he snored.

At least it’s Diego.

“Hey,” you whispered, nudging him in the stomach. Spluttering awake, he blinked and rubbed his eyes. 

“Wh—wha—I wasn’t asleep,” he said defensively, narrowing his eyes. “And you! You bloody idiot!”

Diego smacked you soundly upside the head, his expression cross. The slap had not held enough force behind it to wound, but was jarring nonetheless. Bringing a ginger hand to the base of your skull, you rubbed at where he had hit you, bewildered as he set into you with narrowed eyes and a sharp scowl.

“What were you playing at, going off on your own?! With people after you?! Are you thick?! Were you dropped on your head as an infant?! I thought you died! I thought—”

“—Awww, you were worried,” you teased, grinning widely as you understood. You allowed Diego only a moment to glare at you in reproach before you leaned into him fully, swallowing him up into a hug.

“Sorry,” you whispered. “You shouldn’t have gotten wrapped up in all this.”

“Let me go,” Diego bellowed, wriggling in your grasp. “You madwoman!”

Even as he had said it, he hugged you tightly.

“Don’t you dare scare me like that again,” he said softly, his voice suddenly tremulous. “I really did think it was the end for you.”

“I’d have to be run over by a train or something if anything was going to kill me,” you said back, and Diego laughed weakly into your shoulder.

For a long moment you sat there, Diego squeezing your torso tight; then, he seemed to realize what he was doing and shoved you back as if he had made contact with a leper.

“We lost Pucci,” he bitterly looked away, turning his attention to the television. “Dunno where he went. I imagine he’s sulking about in the shadows and celebrating. Imagine the look on his face when he sees Dio and finds out you’re alive, he’ll probably shit himself.”

At the moment, you would have preferred imagining anything else.

“Enyaba?”

“Dead,” Diego answered immediately. “Dio killed her. Still haven’t quite worked out how. She showed up, he asked her a question or two, she told us Pucci was going to murder you and then she…erm, she exploded?”

“She…exploded?”

“Yeah, it was kind of gross, actually. She was just standing there and then—” puckering his lips into a soft ‘O’, he imitated the sound of an explosion and spread his hands out wide. “—Just up and exploded from the inside. Didn’t even lay a finger on her.”

“…Diego, where’s her body?”

“Dunno that either. We left, and by the time we came back—”

“—‘We’?” You interrupted, looking sharply at Diego. He gave you an almost guilty smile and shrugged.

“Me and Dio. The madman draped himself in one of his blackout curtains and sped off like fucking Quasimodo fleeing his bell tower. Did you know he has a Bugatti Chiron? He let me drive it. That’s, er, that’s why the cops showed up.”

The image of Dio hovering over you, radiant as he smiled, swam into the forefront of your mind. At it your mouth went dry, and the faint beep of the electrocardiogram sped up, subtly ratting out how your heart had begun revolting against the confines of your rib cage. Feeling your face grow hot, you debated on hiding behind your hands, almost bashful at how the thought that Dio had come to find you had made you feel like you had walked straight into the sun.

He came for me.

If Diego had noticed the state you were in, he gave no indication; judging by the look of embarrassed pride on his face, he was too focused on why he had arrived with a swarm of police officers hot on his heels. His ears went pink, and he scratched his head.

“I wasn’t lying about the traffic violations, I was driving quite fast.”

Intrigue pricked at you like tangled thorns, and you watched him closely.

“…How fast?”

A note of glee crept into his voice and he looked back to you, beaming. “In uncivilized measurements? A hundred and forty five miles per hour.”

Spluttering, you stared at Diego, aghast. “You—Jesus Christ, Diego, you could’ve gotten hurt!”

“Well, sorry for trying to save your life. You owe me, by the way.”

“Where’s Dio?”

Diego grew pensive, looking back to the television screen. “As far as I know, he’s still in the mausoleum. Didn’t want to chance it, you know?”

Through the corner of his eye, he watched you with a sidelong glance.

“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation, and judging from how your heart’s beating like a jackhammer—” he pointed to the machines, smirking. “—I can only assume that was not, in fact, the last, desperate words of a dying woman. You and Dio, eh?”

Fuck. I thought I was safe.

“I knew you and Gyro getting together always seemed off,” Diego went on, shaking his head. “Didn’t know it was because you were in love with Dio the whole time.”

“I’m not in love with him!” 

But I do have to admit at some point that I have feelings for him, even if they are extremely complicated and not something I can ever act on, you added silently.

While it was true, it had came out far more defensively than you had wished; something that was not lost on Diego. Quirking up an eyebrow, Diego leaned in, speaking in a low, teasing whisper. 

“If I told you he admitted to me that he’s in love with you, would you leave Gyro?”

The beeping from the machines grew frantic, and you shook your head.

“No,” you answered truthfully. “Not with everything he’s done.”

Diego leaned back, watching you for a long while with pursed lips. 

“I’m sure Gyro would be happy to hear that. I’m supposed to tell him when you’re awake, actually, I should go get him now.”

Blinking back dread, you leaned back into the pillows. 

“Gyro’s here?” 

“Well, yeah,” Diego replied. “He’s been monitoring you under pain of death. Joseph’s here, too. And some weird looking bloke I’ve never seen before.”

Groaning, you brought both hands to your face and sunk lower.

How does this keep getting worse?

“I’m screwed.”

“Yeah,” Diego stood, making his way to the door. “I’d have stayed in the coffin, if it were me.”

I probably fucking should have.

For ten uncomfortable minutes, you sat alone in silence, the light in the windows dwindling into dusk. In that time, you sized up you injuries. The cuts from J. Geil had shockingly vanished, your skin cleaned off—dimly, you wondered if Dio had tended to them and you blushed at the thought—and no pain throbbed beneath the bandages on your hands. 

Then, like a warning, footsteps came pounding up the stairs and down the hallway outside.

Joseph came barreling in first, his hair in wild disarray. It was evident in how it had been smoothed down at the sides that he had been anxiously running his hands through it over and over, and the sight of it bowled you over with guilt. His expression was stern, contrasting the relief heavy in his stare, and he sat in the chair Diego had been sleeping in moments before.

“Hey, Joseph,” you said in a small voice, offering him a halfhearted smile and wave. “I may have done something stupid.”

“You did,” Joseph said bluntly, crossing his arms. “But it’s fine. I do stupid stuff all the time. One time, back when I was in Mexico fighting the Pillar Men, I tried infiltrating a Nazi encampment in drag and—you know what, that’s not important right now,” he said with a sheepish grin as your eyes widened.

The mental image of Joseph traipsing around a Nazi base during World War II with heavily applied makeup, an ill-fitting dress, fake boobs and his hair styled up sent you into a fit of laughter despite the circumstances, and you grinned. Desperate for some sort of reprieve from the heaviness that had permeated over the last few weeks—the last few months, really—you decided to press on.

“No, that’s actually extremely important, please tell me more about your days as a drag queen.”

“Another time, maybe,” Joseph grinned back, slightly embarrassed. “Your well-being is more important, here. Why did you go to see Dio, anyway?”

“I’m quite curious about that, as well,” Gyro said from the doorway, fixing you with a flinty glare. At the sight of him all levity left you, and a pit formed in the bottom of your stomach. Looking away, you fiddled with the bandages on your hands, your face hot.

They don’t need to know the whole truth.

“When he came to the house, he gave me a Stand Arrow. Told me to use it to protect myself. I wasn’t thinking clearly, I guess, it kind of blindsided me on top of everything else. I acted out of impulse, I wanted to know why he had done it.”

Hanging your head, you did not look either of them in the eye. Real tears gathered in yours and the enormity of what you had done settled in, how worried they both must have felt and how Gyro must have interpreted it.

“I’m sorry. I fucked up, monumentally.”

Joseph spoke first, his voice gentle and warm.

“Yeah, you did, but we’re just glad you’re safe. I guess I can understand why you did it. We’ve lived this our entire lives, but you just got thrown into this a couple months ago. It’s a lot to deal with.”

Gyro only watched silently from the doorway. Stepping into the room, he took in his surroundings with an air of displeasure, his stare settling on the windows. When he did finally speak, it was not to you.

“Joseph,” he said quietly, the words constricting in his throat. “Can I have a moment alone with my girlfriend?”

“Oh—sure,” Joseph replied hurriedly, rising to his feet. “I’ll uh, I’ll leave you two alone.”

Stopping for a moment to lay a hand on Gyro’s shoulder and whisper something in his ear, Joseph gave you one last look over his shoulder before he left, one clearly conveying sympathy. Then he shut the door behind him and was gone, his heavy gait lumbering down the hallway toward the stairs. Gyro sat in the chair next, taciturn as he stared at you for what felt like eternity. 

“You’re okay?” 

“Yeah,” you nodded, sitting up in bed. “More or less. Nothing hurts. The cuts healed.”

“Good.” The concern in his eyes gave way to anger, and he scowled. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“Look, I—” you began, guilt pushing the words from your mouth and dying on your tongue as he cut you off.

“—You, what?” Gyro was quiet, perturbingly so; his breath labored, hands clenched into fists, he stared at you. “You had no idea what kind of danger that running off to Dio would put you in? Or what danger it put other people in?”

“I just wanted to know why, Gyro. That’s all.”

“You really didn’t think for a single second that all of this could have been done through a text message?”

“I don’t know!” You were shouting, now, and Gyro rose to his feet. “Okay?! I don’t fucking know! I wasn’t thinking!”

“No, you fucking weren’t,” he roared; he was angrier than you had ever seen him. It vibrated through him, shaking his shoulders and hands, deepening the hue of his cheeks. Pausing to collect himself, he drew his anger inward, and when he spoke his tone was drenched in venom.

“He called me, you know. He threatened to kill my entire family if I didn’t find you. Even my little brothers. Do you know how young they are? The youngest is twelve! And he would have died, all of them would have died, all because you were too fucking impulsive to not go running into the arms of the same piece of shit that would’ve let you die over a fucking Arrow.”

Deep down, you understood full well why he was angry and frankly, did not blame him. Dio threatening his family was far too out of line, and had it been you, you would have reacted the same way. But still, it ebbed at you, eroding at that spot that had contained all of you frustration you had buried deep since October. 

“I didn’t go running into his arms—”

“—Really?” Gyro raised his eyebrows, crossing his arms over his chest. “Then how come you called him? I know you did, don’t bother trying to lie.”

The subtle accusatory tone in Gyro’s voice, the same he had held when he had asked you about Dio while stitching up your arm, gnawed at you. Standing your ground, you glared at him, your irritation spilling over.

“What the fuck was I supposed to do, Gyro? You were unconscious, and I thought I was going to die! Should I have just died? What would’ve pissed you off more, me calling Dio and telling him what happened or me dying and him killing your whole family over it? Tell me, I want to know.”

“I don’t know,” he snapped. “I don’t fucking know! Maybe be a little smarter about who you fucking sleep with, for one.”

“Oh, like I was supposed to fucking know he was a mass murderer!”

“You knew after the first time! And you still fucked him! Were there any other times I should know about? Because the way he was acting, it seems like it.”

Jaw dropped, you stared at Gyro, eyes wide. Words failed you while your brain moved to process what he had meant; when it finally did, when the accusation finally clicked, you blew up.

“Fuck you,” you shouted, throwing a pillow at him. He dodged it easily, swatting it off with one hand, clearly surprised at himself. “Get the fuck out.”

In tense silence, the two of you stood watching one another, locked in a stalemate in the room as night settled in. Then he floundered, his arms falling to his sides in defeat as a long sigh rattled out deep from his chest. He sank back to the chair, burying his face in his hands with a loud groan. Peering up at you from behind his long fingers, he was the picture of despair, a man standing at the edge of losing everything.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just—he got in my head, he kept talking about how you always run to him when you’re in danger and—I don’t fucking know, I guess he got to me. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Gyro took your hand. With a keen eye he looked over the bandages, his face softening; all the rage seemed to leave him, and he sat there broken.

“I had Joseph heal you with Hamon. I couldn’t—I didn’t want to—it’s stupid, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

Subdued, he spoke down to your palm, his gaze heavy.

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”

Gingerly, he let go of your hand and stood, heading toward the door. At the halfway mark he paused, faltering, looking back to you with an expression of pure remorse. Your own guilt stirred deep when you met his gaze, prodding and poking at your tongue, and he fixed you with a mirthless grin.

“The police and everything are taken care of. Diego’s not in any trouble, though it did take some convincing to get them to drop the charges. I’m going to send up someone from the Speedwagon Foundation to talk to you, they have some questions.”

He slipped through the door before you could reply, closing it softly behind him. Taking deep breaths, you did your best to calm down, still furious at Gyro. Even if his anger was warranted, he had no right to speak to you the way he had; frankly, you did not even think he had it in him.

Not five minutes had went by before it opened, a kind looking man with a willowy frame dressed in a deep green turtleneck and black slacks standing in the doorway. A thick, wavy chunk of reddish-pink hair fell over his left eye, their lavender hue holding an affable air as they rest on you from behind a pair of yellow-tinted sunglasses. Dimly, you recognized him, but could not place why.

“Noriaki Kakyoin,” he said in a soft voice, a faint smile on his lips. “I believe we met very briefly at Caesar’s New Year’s Eve party?”

“Oh.” The question jogged your memory, and you could picture him clearly standing between Jotaro and the man with silver hair—Polnareff, right?—on Caesar’s patio. “Yeah, I remember you. Hi.”

“Nice to see you again, although I wish it was under better circumstances.” Kakyoin took the chair next, tilting it to face you before sitting down. From his pants pocket he pulled out his cell phone, crossing one leg over the other and making himself comfortable. “Are you all right?”

“Been better.”

Kakyoin cracked a thin smile, setting the phone on the nightstand and resting his hands over his knee. The affability in him seemed strained, then; it occurred to you that he may have heard your shouting match with Gyro.

“Obviously, I have some questions—I hate to be the one to tell you this, but the Speedwagon Foundation’s very interested in you, given everything. But I figured it might be better if we get to know each other a little first. Is that all right?”

Admittedly, you were pretty tired of all the questions and were thoroughly confused over how the Speedwagon Foundation had even gotten involved—as far as you knew, they did things like rebuild coral reefs and developed medical technology—but you nodded anyway. 

“Good. I’m sure you have some questions for me, go ahead and ask.”

Without thinking, you blurted out the first question that came to mind.

“How did you guys get Diego off the hook?”

At that, Kakyoin grinned. “It’s not the first time the Speedwagon Foundation has had to bail someone out of charges on a Joestar’s behalf. Jotaro was a bit of a delinquent in his teen years.”

Picturing the man, you did not have much of a hard time believing him. But it brought you to your next question, one that had subtly nagged at you from the moment Gyro had made that phone call.

“What does the Speedwagon Foundation have to do with all this?”

“We have a vested interest in your boss, and have since the Foundation began.”

Bewildered, you sat up a little straighter.

“Why?”

“Well,” Kakyoin said lightly, glancing off to the side. “That’s a long story. To condense it as much as possible, the man who started it was best friends with Jonathan Joestar. He knew Dio, he had teamed up with him to help stop him back in 1888. The Foundation always sought to help with furthering scientific and medical advancement, but there’s always been a department within it dedicated to matters that are decidedly more…I guess supernatural, in nature.”

“Like Stands and stuff?”

“And stuff,” he repeated with a nod.

Looking at him closely, you pointed to him.

“Are you a Stand user?”

“I am.”

“Hamon, too?”

“I joined the Hamon program with Jotaro in 2012, yes.”

“Are you secretly like fifty years old?”

Laughing outright, Kakyoin shook his head. “I’m thirty. Anything else?”

“What’s your Stand?”

“Hierophant Green. Now,” grabbing the phone off the nightstand, Kakyoin settled in the chair. “I’m going to start asking you questions. Is it okay if I record our conversation?”

“Sure,” you replied with a wave toward the phone. “Go ahead.”

“Thanks.” Pressing record, he set the phone back on the nightstand and steepled his fingers, his elbows perched on the armrests. “Let’s begin. How did you fall under Dio’s employment?”

“Well,” you blushed, finding it difficult to look Kakyoin in the eye. “That’s kind of a long story, too. Chalk it up to a one night stand that I’m continuing to suffer for to this day.”

Raising his eyebrows, he gave a slow nod. “Are you comfortable going into detail? Not about the one night stand, obviously, but the way he recruited you.”

Fumbling for the right answer, you settled on the bare bones.

“It was more like blackmail. I knew what he was, he used that to his advantage. Moved me in here, gave me a job as his assistant, and here we are.”

“Outside of your employment, what would you consider your relationship to Dio as?”

“Something I’m very tired of talking about,” you muttered darkly, exhaustion heavy in your voice. “But in all honestly, I don’t even know what to call it. Frenemies? What’s the emotionally fraught equivalent of frenemies?”

Offering a small shrug, Kakyoin said nothing and moved onto the next question. “We’re aware of the events that occurred over Christmas, that’s when Joseph offered to teach you Hamon, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What prompted you to accept?”

“Dio, actually. He told me to go for it. Pretty sure he was planning on using it to spy on Joseph and everyone.”

“Makes sense, given what we know so far. You said emotionally fraught, right? Does that mean there’s…how do I put this, are there feelings involved?”

“Yes,” you admitted. Kakyoin gave you a long look.

“On both sides?”

Going in depth about feelings you still had not quite figured out yourself with a perfect stranger was not on your list of viable activities, and you dodged the opportunity entirely.

“On Dio’s.” 

That had caught Kakyoin by surprise. Lavender eyes widening ever so slightly, he seemed to grapple with how to frame his next question; gradually, in the silence, you realized how tired you were becoming.

“With that in mind,” he said slowly. “Had Dio ever confided in you details of what he planned to do with the Stone Mask or Red Stone of Aja once he had both in his possession? Aside from become the Ultimate Being.”

“Nope, just that.”

“Did Dio mention any other relics?”

“The Stand Arrows?”

“Anything about something called the Saint’s Corpse? Or the Corpse Parts?”

Wracking your brain, you could not recall anything about a corpse ever coming up. You shook your head.

“No. Just the Arrows, the Stone Mask, and the Red Stone of Aja.”

“Okay. At what point did you notice Stand users coming to the house regularly?”

“I dunno, January-ish?”

“And one of them was Enrico Pucci?”

“Yes.” Scowling at the name, you crossed your arms. “That fucker.”

“Do you know why Enya Geil and Enrico Pucci had conspired to kill you?”

Taking a long moment to answer him, you nodded. “Somewhat. They kept saying I was ‘distracting him from his purpose’. Whatever the fuck that means.”

Pensive, Kakyoin mulled everything over. 

“I think that’s enough for now. Dio should be here soon, I’d rather not push my luck. But I’m interested in resuming this conversation soon. Can I leave you with my contact information?”

“Sure,” you replied, and Kakyoin shut off the recording. 

“Off the record,” he said as he rose to his feet. “It’s going to get ugly from here on out. Be careful and don’t sneak out anywhere else. We don’t know who else aside from J. Geil and Rubber Soul were part of this. Hol Horse has already been cleared.”

Kakyoin gave you his number and left, and you settled back into the pillows.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you muttered. “I hate today.”

Mercifully, after Kakyoin you had been left alone, and not long after sleep returned. Jarred awake after what felt like two minutes, tops, by the sound of a door next to you sharply closing, you sat up straight in the bed, scrambling in the dark for the light switch at the base of the lamp on the nightstand. Once your fingers brushed against the raised plastic, you turned it on and looked around. Diego had returned to the room at some point, asleep beside you back in the chair that had seemed to hold everyone and their grandmother in it throughout the day, his hair falling into his face. Listening intently to the sound of footsteps in the room next to yours, their familiar weight sent your heart ringing.

Dio.

You were in the room next to his.

The pads on your chest and the IV had been removed while you were asleep, allowing you freedom to move. As carefully as you could manage, you slipped out from the bed and crept across the room to the door, maneuvering it open as silently as possible before stepping out. Just as carefully, you closed it and walked to Dio’s door, his soft laughter behind the wood like crackling flames.

“Come in,” he said softly. 

When you opened the door, it was to find him in the middle of taking off his jacket. He watched you silently from the middle of the room, a thin smirk on his lips.

“I heard you had quite the argument with Gyro. Trouble in paradise?”

“I know it was you,” you looked anywhere but him as you closed the door behind you. Allowing your gaze to settle on the fireplace, you leaned against the door. “You came for me.”

“Phenomenal,” Dio replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Your deductive skills are nothing short of extraordinary. Perhaps I was wrong before, you should consider detective work. You would put Sherlock Holmes to shame.”

“Why’d you do it?”

He paused, the sound of rustling fabric whispering through the room as he set his jacket on the bed. “If anyone is going to entomb you alive, I would prefer it being me.”

“How sweet of you.”

“Isn’t it?” Dio chuckled. Crossing over to you, he gently cradled your chin and tilted your face to his, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Or perhaps it’s because I do tell the truth from time to time, and I meant it when I said I was somewhat fond of you. Which, if memory serves, you admitted all too readily to understanding how deep that fondness lies.”

Boldness claimed you, moving you to speak without thinking as you looked up at him.

“Fond enough to give up whatever you’re planning?”

“It’s funny how you continue to ask that and yet my answer remains the same. No,” he murmured, shaking his head. “My goals extend far beyond such trivial notions like fondness.”

That boldness gave way to annoyance with impressive speed, and you sighed.

“Why are you doing all of this?”

“To take long walks at the beach at noon,” Dio answered, sardonic. “Why else?”

Holding his gaze, you did not drop the subject.

“Why, really? Why not just stop? You have money, you have power, you have your platform. Why not just be content with that?”

Dio let go of you chin and strode toward the fireplace. He moved across the room like a lumbering phantom, his stride an effortless saunter, and when he reached the green reading chair he draped an arm over its top and put a hand on his hip.

“There are two reasons that I have decided to bring my plan to fruition,” he answered, slipping into a demeanor that was markedly more serious. “The first is to bring about a Heaven of my own design, over which I will hold unquestionable and unvanquishable power as a god. In this Heaven, no one will feel pain, nor fear. They will know of their fate from birth, they will have certainty as they move through that world.”

Pausing, he crossed his arms, his gaze pensive as he stared out the window at the expanse of night below. “The second is far less idealistic, more so pragmatic—this body is rejecting me. My left side does not heal as fast as my right; this opens up too many possibilities to be killed. To become the Ultimate Being, to ascend to living godhood, will cement my control.”

Tilting his head toward you, he looked at you from the corner of his eye and smiled. “No amount of money, or fame, or power can grant me that alone. And what better world than one where you are certain of your fate?”

“Isn’t not knowing what makes life worth living?” Keeping your voice steady, you met his stare with unshakable resolve. “Or did you forget that once you stopped being human?”

Dio raised an eyebrow, clearly interested by the question instead of interpreting it as a dig.

“Wouldn’t you have preferred knowing that the night I had waited in that lobby for you, this would have been the result? Or that showing up at Pucci’s church would lead to your own brush with death?”

“No,” you answered honestly, and Dio allowed himself to look genuinely surprised. “I wouldn’t have.”

“Then you’re a fool,” Dio said simply. “Or you had never truly suffered until you were trapped in that coffin.”

Bristling at the jab, your mouth set in a thin line and you glanced toward the mask propped up on the mantle. It almost stared back, mocking, goading you into the question that its presence provoked.

“What if the Stone Mask is destroyed?”

Dio smiled once more, gentle and patient.

“You would be an idiot to assume I don’t have a contingency plan, darling.”

“Which is…?”

His expression shrewd, he lifted it from the mantle, turning it over in his hands and running his finger along its rounded edge.

“Now, why would I tell you? We both know where your loyalties lie.”

“Do we?” You had said it quietly, more so to yourself, and Dio crossed his arms.

“Don’t tell me you plan on double-crossing your dear Gyro.”

“I don’t…even know if that’s a thing anymore.”

“Ah,” smiling wickedly as he put the Stone Mask back on the mantle, he eyed you through the dim light. “So there was trouble in paradise.”

“I’m pretty sure he broke up with me, actually.”

“Is that why you’re in here?”

“No,” you replied. “I came to thank you.”

Dio watched you for a long moment, his face unreadable. “You’re welcome.”

Sighing, he rubbed at his temple, his expression suddenly bleak.

“This does not come to me easily, little pet. Kindness, sentiment. It’s beyond comprehension to me.”

Then he sighed, his shoulders sinking as he shook his head.

“I’ve missed you,” he said quietly. “Can you believe that? You were barely gone, and yet I missed you as if it had been a hundred years.” 

“…I think I missed you too,” you admitted. “In some twisted way, I like having you around. Is this Stockholm Syndrome?”

“You’ve always had the ability to leave.”

“Until you kill me.”

“I never could,” Dio countered in a bitter voice. “Which infuriates me to no end, because there are a number of times I wish I had.”

“But then you’d miss me forever,” you teased.

“Perhaps that’s a better torture than this.”

“How am I torturing—”

He had pulled you to him so quickly that it was disorienting, his hand at the small of your back. Fighting to gain your bearings, he gave you no time to adjust before his lips crashed into yours, the intensity behind it near blinding. Dazed, you thought of Gyro; the thought left you quickly and you draped your arms over his neck. Just as quickly as it had begun, it had ended, and Dio’s eyes bore into yours.

“This is torture. You are torture. You remain out of my reach, no matter what I say or do. I would burn this world to the ground in your name, brave daylight to steal you from death, and yet you still elude my grasp.”

So close to him, everything violently pushed its way up to the forefront of your thoughts. What he was, what he had done; Gyro. But all you could focus on was the way he had smiled above you in that mausoleum, how you never could really keep away from him for too long. How you knew, deep down, you wanted him in that moment.

Fuck it.

“Give it all up and I’m yours,” you breathed, and you brought Dio back into the kiss. Again, as abruptly as it had started he broke away, shaking his head as he let you go.

“I told you,” he whispered, gently pushing you back. “Not even you will stop me, my love.”

Reaching past you, he opened the door, watching you with an expression that was almost forlorn. 

“Go.”

He ushered you out into the dark hallway, shutting the door behind you and turning the lock. Near-dazed and trembling, you crept back to your room, Diego sitting upright in the chair.

“I didn’t sleep,” he bleated. “I’ve been up the whole time.”

“Relax,” you put on a smile, waving a dismissive hand to him. “I just got up for five minutes. Is Gyro still here?”

“No,” Diego replied, and relief washed over you. Guilt followed swiftly behind, bowling you over and propelling you back to the bed. Picking up your phone, you sent him a single message.

Are we over?

His reply came quickly: No. I just need some time.

“Fuck,” you whispered as you read it, brushing your lips with the pads of your fingers. Reality set in, the gravity of what had just happened heavy on your shoulders. “Oh, fuck.”

Chapter Text

“I needed a break.”

From beneath the dipping verdant fronds of a drooping pine tree, Diego glowered at you, snatching the cap with two large black plastic circles meant to resemble mouse ears off his head before roughly stabbing into a cup of Dole Whip with a plastic spoon. Petulant, he let his attention shift to it, staring at the scoop of soft serve in the spoon with an expression that clearly said he was debating on putting it in his mouth or fashioning the utensil into a makeshift trebuchet and flinging it at you. Taking a sip of water to hide your amused grin as he sighed, you settled into your seat and pulled down the brim of your red-and-white polka dot baseball cap, a matching red bow nestled between two black ears made of felt.

“That’s all well and good,” he muttered into the Dole Whip. “But why the bloody hell did you need to drag me with you?”

Spreading your arms out wide, you gestured vaguely to the sitting area outside the Tiki Room, draped with tropical flora and clearly marked by a bamboo fence. 

“I thought kids love Disneyland. Are you not having fun, Diego?”

“I’ll be twenty in three months, stop bloody treating me like I’m a child! What grown adult enjoys Disneyland?!”

“Disney adults,” you answered with a sage nod. A look of sheer disgust warped Diego’s features, curling his mouth into a derisive sneer.

“Sorry, I should have clarified. What grown adult with self-respect enjoys Disneyland?”

A family with a clearly inconsolable grade schooler hurried past the pathway that wound through Adventureland, the kid howling at the top of their lungs while being dragged forward by their parents. Making his decision, Diego quickly spooned the chunk of Dole Whip into his mouth and gulped it down, using the spoon to point at the kid.

“See? That kid’s got the right idea, screaming his head off. I relate to that.”

“Eat your seven dollar Dole Whip and stop complaining, dude, you got out of the house and got to go to Disneyland for free.”

Pointing with the spoon, he fixed you with a resentful stare.

“You literally could have brought anyone else. Don’t you have a boyfriend?! Or did you and Gyro finally break up?”

The question alone made you wince; you had not heard from Gyro in a week and a half. Not since the night Dio had managed to finesse Joseph into thinking it was better for you to move back into the guest house, less than forty-eight hours after the mausoleum. She’ll be under my watch, he had said in a tone that clearly conveyed Joseph had better not disagree with him. My Stand has more power than all of yours combined. They won’t lay a finger on her as long as she’s with me. I swear it on my name, Dio.

And to his credit, you could see his point. But it had been a headache of its own, navigating the house. He had moved you into the room next to his, and despite Diego’s numerous protests he had not allowed him to take the vacant guest house. That, he had lent to Vanilla Ice, much to both yours and Diego’s disdain. There was nothing to do, either—although Dio still paid you, he had taken it upon himself to relieve you of your responsibilities, deferring your duties to Vanilla Ice and broadly referring to it as an “extended leave of absence.” Midler and Mariah had all but vanished with Hol Horse three days after your return, leaving the house empty; when you had asked where they had went, Dio had only smirked and shook his head. 

Subtly, infuriatingly, he had begun burrowing his way under your skin like a parasite, somehow always there and just out of reach. If you were with Diego, he would appear armed with some random question or off-hand he knew would get Diego to start talking, finding ways to drag the conversation on while sitting just a bit too close next to you, resting his arm over the top of the couch just above your shoulders. If he caught you alone, he would fix you with a gaze that made you feel combustible, like a dry forest at the mercy of a can of kerosene and a lit match, itching to set you ablaze.

The kiss remained unacknowledged and unspoken, yet hung between you whenever you had happened to be in the same room, making it feel as if the giant estate was closing in on you. Between him and the silence and your own warring conscience, you had to get out for while. Those mahogany flat panels and whitewashed walls were driving you insane.

Snapping his fingers in front of your face, Diego brought you sharply back to the present, rolling his eyes.

“And now you’re not even paying attention, you’re just spacing out with your eyes glossed over like you’ve been lobotomized. Did that crypt give you brain damage?”

“Sorry,” you gave him a weak smile. “I was trying to figure out how to answer your question.”

With a scoff, he turned his attention back to his Dole Whip.

“It’s a yes or no question, what other answers are there? Did he break up with you or not?”

“No? He said no, but I haven’t talked to him since I moved back in. He’s not answering my calls or texts.”

“He’s mustering up the courage, I’d wager,” Diego said, scooping more Dole Whip into his mouth. “Or kicking himself in the face for implying you cheated on him.”

Sarcasm leadened your tongue, cold against the burning memory of Dio’s lips on yours. “You’re so helpful, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he retorted, glancing up with a mockingly cheery smile. Then his expression grew pensive, and he stared off toward the Tiki Room.

“Is this even a good place to bring a date? Without seeming childish?”

“You mean H.P?”

Diego’s ears went pink.

“No,” he stabbed back into the Dole Whip, flustered. “I mean for your doomed love life. Everything you’ve done so far is childish and stupid, I reckon a Disneyland date wouldn’t be above that.”

Fascinated, you leaned over the table, tucking your hand under your chin and watching Diego with great interest. Remembering the night in the guest house after everything with Wang Chan, you wondered if this was one of those rare moments that the arrogant facade of Diego Brando had began to slip, affording you another glimpse into the life of the young man behind it.

You decided to seize the opportunity to pry.

“What do they even like? You never bring them around.”

“Punk shows in derelict warehouses,” he answered immediately, not meeting your eyes; you understood he did not entirely share their enjoyment in it. “Slasher movie marathons. Festivals. They got two tickets to Coachella, they want me to go too. Which, I suppose isn’t too bad. Could be worse. And I don’t bring them around you lot because all of you are categorically insane. Last thing I need is a deranged priest attacking my partner.”

At the mention of Pucci, a chill that had nothing to do with the cold fell upon you, tightening your grip on the water bottle and sending the plastic crinkling beneath your fingertips. The bleached marble and three sets of echoing footsteps pushed their way out from the back of your mind, leaving your breath shaky.

“It goes against my convictions to kill you.”

Don’t think about that right now. You’re here to get a break from it all.

“Six Flags, then,” you opened your eyes and gave him a slow nod, brushing off the remark about Pucci with a barely-suppressed shudder. “More thrill-oriented, though less thrilling than being attacked by a deranged priest.”

Laughing weakly, you looked down at your water bottle. “I speak from experience.”

Sheepish, he did not look up at you as he stirred the contents of his cup with the spoon. His voice came out small, tinged with remorse. “…Where’s that?” 

“Santa Clarita, it’s not too far out from Dio’s. Closer than Anaheim, actually. They’ll know where it is.”

He motioned to the cup. “This really cost you seven dollars?”

“It did, yeah.”

“Thank you.”

The moment to pry into his life had passed, Diego’s desire to change the subject readily apparent. Equally willing, you straightened up where you sat, craning your neck to look toward New Orleans Square.

“Wanna go on Pirates of the Caribbean?”

“Like the movies?”

You nodded. “Yeah, they were based on the ride.”

Mulling it over, Diego tucked back into the Dole Whip, his eyes on the hulking peak of the Matterhorn in the distance.

“Maybe. What’s that?”

“The Matterhorn? It’s like a bobsled roller coaster.”

A small glint of excitement danced in Diego’s eyes, and you found yourself thinking fondly he would have no trouble at all with H.P at Six Flags.

“It’s a roller coaster? Let’s do that.”

He stood, leaving you no time to agree or disagree as he charged down the path, grinning from ear to ear. 

No trouble at all, you thought to yourself with a smile, downing your water and Picking up Diego’s crumpled Mickey hat, his name embroidered in cursive on the back—you practically had to wrestle him to get it on his head—you checked to make sure no other trash was left behind before leaving, tucking the hat into your purse. By then, Diego had whirled back to face you, ushering you forward with an impatient hand.

“Come on,” he urged. “If you’re going to subject me to this torture, we’re at least going on something fun.”

“Okay, okay.” Setting off into a hurried pace, you caught up to Diego, who had by now finished his Dole Whip. Along the walk, the two of you slipped into idle chatter, Diego frequently sweeping a disdainful glance along the pathway at the families hurrying by and giving a derisive snort as a man had gotten down on one knee outside the castle to propose to his boyfriend.

“If anyone proposed to me at a children’s theme park, I’d jump off the tallest ride there,” he had said under his breath, wincing as you had smacked his shoulder.

“It’s their moment, be nice.”

Though by no means busy, there was still a decent crowd, and a couple people had stopped to look at Diego in passing interest, recognition faint in their stare. Near the entrance to the Matterhorn, two teenaged girls that were very obviously skipping school slipped into a conspicuous huddle, whispering conspiratorially behind their hands and sneaking furtive glances at him as they shouldered purses fashioned into backpacks. Quietly groaning under his breath, Diego subtly tensed up, openly watching them with a wary eye. With a giggle, one of them tugged at her shirt and smoothed it over, smiling brightly as she bounded forward.

“Are you Dio? From TikTok?”

“No,” Diego answered witheringly; he had been waiting for it from the moment the first person had eyed him at the entrance of the park. Without waiting for a response, he walked straight past her and through the entrance, never once looking back. Dejected, the girl slunk back to her friend, the latter shaking her head with an amused smile.

“Told you,” she giggled, pointing at Diego’s back. “He’s too short and scrawny to be Dio.”

“But he looks just like him,” the girl pouted. “Like, they could be brothers.”

“I think they are,” her friend said, her eyes falling on you as she dropped her voice to a stage whisper. “I recognize her, I saw a thread about her on Reddit last night. She was in the background of a couple of his TikToks.”

The girl gawped at you, eyebrows raised and eyes wide, and you hurried past. Once you had caught up to Diego, the conversation fresh in your mind, you glanced back to see if they had followed and saw the queue empty. Diego’s eyes followed, narrowed in contempt.

“Where are those children’s parents?”

“They’re skipping school, you didn’t see the backpacks?”

“I was too busy trying to avoid getting caught talking to teenaged girls, I’d rather not have a TikTok cropping up alleging I’m a predator go viral.”

“They said they recognized me,” you said quietly, your stare still trained on the entrance. “Something about a Reddit thread.”

To your surprise, Diego chuckled.

“I saw that,” he said off-handedly, fishing his phone out from his pocket. “Mariah sent it to me.”

“Where the hell is she, anyway?”

“Italy,” Diego answered, looking up at you as he scrolled. “Didn’t you know? Her and Midler went, they’re on vacation.”

He handed the phone to you, and the small line moved forward three paces. On the screen was a post in a subreddit called TikTokGossip titled “Dio Brando’s girlfriend?”, showing various screenshots of Dio from videos. In the back of each one, there you sat, a faintly annoyed expression on your face as you plugged away at your keyboard, eyes glued to your laptop. A few had cropped Dio out and zoomed in on you entirely, each of them closeups of your face illuminated in faint blue-white.

Groaning, you brought a hand to your forehead and began to read.

RinguWaifu: Pretty sure that’s his assistant? Because they follow each other on Instagram but they never actually take pictures together. I looked through his feed and there aren’t any, her account’s private though so I don’t know about her.

• UnaNotUno: She is. She’s dating Gyro Zeppeli, he’s posted pictures of them on his story before. 
  

             • RinguWaifu: I have no idea who that is

ThusSpoke_Heavens_Door: I’m gonna be honest I genuinely thought he was gay this entire time.

• empress-nena: He’s bisexual

           • ThusSpoke_Heavens_Door: so you’re saying I have a chance

PanacottaVerdi_: Whoever she is, I relate so strongly to her tbh. She looks so done with everyone’s shit.

SoftNWetJosuk8: I have no idea who any of these people are or why I was recommended this sub

• Wonder_of_U: nobody fucking cares bro shut the fuck up

star-finger1991: what I would not give to punch dio brando in the leg

• whatscoolndoul: dude’s acting like dio killed his whole family lol

Dan-of-Steel: pretty sure he’s in a polycule with Midler, Mariah and Vanilla Ice

• PanacottaVerdi_: no wonder his assistant looks miserable, that sounds like the most insufferable polycule in existence.
• ThusSpoke_Heavens_Door: Where do I sign up for the polycule?

“Seems like you get to enjoy your fifteen minutes,” Diego quipped as he took back his phone. “How does it feel?”

“…Weird,” you said quietly enough for only Diego to hear, the line moving you both along the base of the sculpted mountain. “It’s weird. Like, I’m literally standing in line for the fucking Matterhorn reading about myself on Reddit like I wasn’t being buried alive two weeks ago because I work for Dio. Like they have no idea who he is.”

“Social media’s a highlight reel, not an ‘I’m a vampire with a cult of Stand users and I’m planning on enslaving humanity through TikTok’ reel.” 

Diego gave you a long look, shoving his phone back into his pocket, oblivious to the confused couple ahead of you both sending alarmed glances over their shoulders.

“And we both know it’s not because you work for him.”

Giving the couple a weak smile, you gestured to Diego. “He’s kidding.”

Awkwardly, they turned back, and Diego lowered his voice. 

“He told me, you know. That he loves you.”

“Not enough for it to stop him,” you shot back.

“When did he say that?”

“The night you guys brought me home.”

“Is that where you went off to? Dio’s room?” Appalled, Diego stared at you. “Don’t tell me you two—”

“—We didn’t,” you interrupted, the taste of the kiss still vivid on your tongue. Guilt moved your hand to your purse and you grabbed your phone, opening the long record of texts left unread.

I’m at Disneyland with Diego. Hope everything’s okay, Gyro.

His response was swift and surprising, breaking his silence.

Ah, you found the only amusement park where he’s tall enough for all the rides! 

Then, another.

I’m okay, I’m sorry. I miss you. Can I see you soon?

You typed out a quick ‘yeah, let me know when you’re free’ and threw your phone back into your purse, the boarding deck now within view. The line had moved surprisingly quick; if you had to guess, you were sure most of the people in the park were at Galaxy’s Edge. A ride attendant ushered you and Diego past, allowing you a reprieve from the dread that had begun to set in at the prospect of seeing Gyro face to face, knowing what you had done. On autopilot, you followed Diego to the front of the bobsled and sat down, your mind clouded over.

It was just a kiss, and I thought Gyro broke up with me. He literally said “I can’t do this” and left. Like, that’s what you say during a breakup.

An attendant came by, checking to see if you were strapped in and secure, giving a quick tug on the car’s seatbelt.

I shouldn’t feel this bad, right? Does that even count as cheating?

The memory of relief washing over you at the thought of Gyro leaving stung, a pall cast over the way he had smiled at you at the beach and the feel of his sheets on New Year’s.

I fucked up.

The car began to move at a slow crawl toward a pitch black tunnel carved into the side of the mountain, and a different sort of dread pricked at your scalp. Gooseflesh rose in prominent bumps along your nape and you could see Pucci, his arms outstretched and his face tilted skyward; that final glimpse of light before the coffin lid shut.

“The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want….”

Thrust into the darkness, your hands tightened against the lap bar, and you gritted your teeth as you stared straight ahead. Instantly your mind plunged into that suffocating darkness, the stale air heady with dust and rot and rust on bleached satin. Like two hands at your throat, it squeezed the air out of you; amongst the chatter and laughter of the somewhat sparse crowds you could hear Gyro and Hol Horse calling your name. Closing your eyes, you took a deep breath and breathed in only the memory of the mausoleum crypt. Beside you, Diego shifted awkwardly in his seat, correctly guessing by your body language alone where your mind had gone.

“Oi,” he whispered, nudging you with his elbow. “You’re all right. It’s just a ride, you’re not there.”

“I know,” you said quietly. “I just—”

“—It’ll be over in, what, two minutes? You’ll be fine. We’re already in it now, there’s no backing out.”

Putting a hand over yours, Diego sighed in resignation.

“Here. If it’ll help you get through it, take my hand.”

Touched by the gesture, you gripped his hand tight and he sucked in air through his teeth.

“Good lord, woman, I said take my hand, not break my hand!”

The coaster lurched forward and gave you no time for rebuttal; you were beginning the agonizing ascent up the track. Easy. Deep breaths. Diego’s right, it’s just a ride. 

In the distance, a faint sliver of light grew rapidly closer, heralding in the curve you knew would follow. Diego’s hand squirmed in yours.

“Gross, why are you all clammy?”

“Don’t make me wipe my clammy hands all over your face on this ride, Diego.”

Then you were careening down the curve and through a wide, painstakingly carved cavern, a stretch of open air blasting cold wind against your face before plunging you into the bright blues and pinks of the first ice tunnel. A small, breathless laugh colored with genuine delight left Diego, one that turned into a sharp inhale once he had noticed the animatronic yeti at the center of a fork in the tracks, growling incoherently with its red lights for eyes glowing bright despite the day. 

A sharp turn led you deeper into the mountain, the ice-blue ceiling almost like painted clouds whizzing past. It brought you to another, wider stretch of open air through a path of stalagmites before turning into another pocket of ice and carved stalactites in the ceiling, gradually gaining speed in your descent before abruptly plunging you back into darkness. The second tunnel was far more brief, lasting a scant few seconds before thrusting you back into daylight. Winding along a curve next to a waterfall, suddenly you were at the base of the mountain and heading toward a small pool. 

“Oh, bollocks,” Diego groaned, and the front of the bobsled met the water. A small spray shot upward from the front of the car and you let go of Diego’s hand, shielding your face as the water cascaded over you. It barely touched you; a rather sizable portion smacked Diego in the face.

Then as quickly as it had begun, it was over, a male voice droning overhead to remain seated and leave your seatbelt fastened as the car slowed to a stop.

“Great,” Diego wiped at his face, shaking off like a wet dog. “You didn’t tell me this was a water ride.”

“That barely counts,” you said with a laugh as the car hissed its way into the bay and came to a final stop. “It’s not like this is Splash Mountain or anything.”

But I’m definitely dragging you on that later, you added silently.

The two of you got off the ride, and Diego looked around. Walking through Fantasyland, Diego settled into something close to embarrassment, fiddling with the dampened ends of his hair. 

“Did you ever play Five Nights At Freddy’s?”

“Back when it first came out, yeah. But not much since. Why?”

“No reason,” Diego answered, his unusually cheerful tone clearly forced. “What do you want to go on, next?”

Thinking to how Diego’s laughter had abruptly cut off into a gasp at the yeti, you grinned, understanding.

“Oh my god, are you afraid of animatronics? Because if you are, you came to the wrong amusement park.”

“No,” he had went from cheerful to defensive. “Why the bloody hell would I be scared of animatronics?”

“Why would you randomly bring up Five Night’s At Freddy’s?”

“To make conversation, obviously.”

Not for a second did you buy Diego’s explanation, his too-wide smile and scratching hand at his throat a dead giveaway that he was lying; you said nothing, looking to the edge of Fantasyland. In the distance, the hodgepodge castle of historical landmarks that housed It’s A Small World stood as a silent temptation, the faraway face of the automaton clock the face of a non-sentient co-conspirator as mischief sent your mind working.

Splash Mountain can wait, this is going to be way funnier.

Walking toward it as quickly as your feet would take you, Diego trailed along, confused. 

“Where are we going?”

“Not sure yet,” you lied, making a beeline for It’s A Small World.

When the two of you had reached the outskirts of Fantasyland, the carefully manicured green topiaries around the queue leading to its empty entrance in full view, Diego raised an eyebrow.

“What is this?”

“You’ve heard of It’s A Small World, right? The boat ride?”

Pausing, Diego stared at the building, eyeing the automaton clock’s goofy countenance as if it were a sleep paralysis demon made flesh. 

“Of course I have, it’s the ride with all the—no,” Diego shook his head adamantly, palpable terror in his voice as he looked to the towering white and gold citadel’s facade. “I’m not doing it. I’m not going on there. You can’t bloody make me.”

“Thought you weren’t scared, Diego. Why do you sound scared?”

“I’m not scared, I don’t want that fucking song stuck in my head!”

“Quit being such a baby, it’s not that bad. Come on.”

Keeping a wary stare trained on the automaton clock, Diego did not budge. With an annoyed sigh, you seized his wrist in both your hands and pulled, causing him to yelp in surprise as you dragged him to the entrance. While the Matterhorn had a surprisingly small line, It’s A Small World lay nearly empty, only about three dozen families in the queue overall. In the five minutes it had taken to get to the front of the line, Diego had went through all five stages of grief—he had passed through denial at the topiaries, settling soundly into anger after you had dragged him into the line. Then bargaining, offering to go on any other ride and not make a single sarcastic remark through the day. Halfway through the line, he had fallen swiftly into depression; when the cast member had led you into the boat, he had walked forward with the calm resignation of a man meeting his death.

Silent, he sat with his arms crossed as the boat bobbed its way along the long curve of the topiary-laden canal, the water below startlingly clear and reeking strongly of chlorine. It snaked its way past the castle-like front and toward a wide tunnel, and the voice of a woman cheerily droned overhead, followed by the faint chorus of childlike voices singing in unison.

“…It’s a world of hope, and a world of fears…”

“Hear that, Diego? It’s a world of fears.”

Pulling out his phone, he scowled as the tunnel swallowed your boat. “I’m going to drown you.” 

On the screen, you could see his messages open, two small pink hearts next to H.P’s name. Suddenly feeling intrusive, you looked away, focusing instead on the paper-like waves adorning the walls of the tunnel and a ship with animals on board playing instruments, “the happiest cruise that ever sailed” emblazoned on its sails in a funky retro font. At the end was a green animatronic serpent, and you nudged Diego, silently pointing to it.

“What—oh, piss off,” he muttered, turning his attention back to the phone.

“…It’s a small world after all, it’s a small world after all, it’s a small world…”

A pang of remorse stabbed at you as you remembered how Diego had consoled you at the tunnel and you glanced at Diego, tense and hunched over as he typed. His brow was knitted together at the center, his glances around the tunnel somewhat furtive. With an apologetic smile, you tapped his shoulder and he glared up at you.

“You’re not actually afraid, are you?”

“Not afraid,” Diego said after a moment, sighing. “Just uncomfortable, d’you know what I mean? They’re unsettling.”

“Sorry. Kinda fucked up for me to drag you on here, huh?”

“You’re always dragging me into fucked up situations, this is just the least dangerous one.”

The boat came to a sudden, jarring stop between Scotland and France, slamming into the back of the boat ahead with a clunky smack. You and Diego lurched forward in the seat, Diego blinking in confusion before looking around in alarm. When his stare settled straight ahead, he pointed forward to the long line of boats that had came to a grinding halt, awkwardly bobbing in the water as the dolls around you danced and sang.

“…It’s a small, small world…”

“What’s going on? Is this part of the ride?”

“No,” you answered, sitting up in your seat. “The ride stopped.”

“…What do you mean, the ride stopped?”

“I mean the ride stopped, Diego.”

Other riders were glancing around, their muted whispers a buzzing hum that lay just beneath the song. From one boat, a child loudly demanded to know why it had stopped, and you were jolted forward once more as the boat behind you collided with yours.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Diego muttered, eyeing the cancan dancers above with contempt. “They’ll at least turn the song off, right?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never been on a ride when it broke down before.”

Diego fidgeted in his seat.

“How long do you think it’ll take?”

“Who knows,” you answered with a shrug, looking around. “You gonna be okay?”

“Ask me again later if they keep this song playing.”

For ten minutes, nothing had happened. In silence, the two of you sat there, the boat quietly bobbing in the water as the dolls continued to dance and the song continued to play. Diego grew increasingly irate, his contempt dipping into genuine fury. Then the music cut off, and Diego let out a cry of joy as a voice came on overhead.

“Attention, It’s A Small World! Your voyage has been temporarily delayed,” a man’s voice boomed. “Please remain seated in your boat, as it may begin moving at any time. Thank you.”

The music returned, and Diego moaned in frustration.

“I think by the end of this, I’ll no longer be uncomfortable around animatronics. I’ll hate them instead, and this bloody song too.”

“…It’s a world of laughter, a world of tears…”

“Oh, fuck right off,” Diego stared up at the ceiling with pure hatred, cursing Walt Disney for ever existing.

Over the next twenty minutes, the low hum of conversation grew into a discontented cacophony, almost drowning out the song. It had gradually grated down at you as well, the tinny voices of children that had long since grown up a mockery of your situation. Diego angrily typed on his phone beside you, his mouth a sharp line and his brow furrowed. Sneaking a quick peek over his shoulder, you saw it was to Dio—he had been checking in with alarming frequency, ensuring neither of you had been followed.

We’ve been trapped on It’s A Small World for the last half hour. They won’t turn off the music. Doubt you’ll need to worry about Pucci, I might strangle her myself and claim I went mad from the singing.

In your purse, your phone began to ring, and you fished it out to see that it was Dio calling. 

“Hey.”

He wasted no time in getting to the point.

“What is It’s A Small World and why are you trapped in it?”

“The world’s worst fucking boat ride in existence,” Diego answered for you, yelling into the phone and drawing the ire of several parents with their kids. “Bloody cursed dolls dancing around in circles and whinging about world peace. Kill me.”

Dio paused, dead air crackling from the receiver as he listened.

“Is that the singing he mentioned?”

“Yes,” you groaned; you now shared the same hatred for the song that Diego had repeatedly professed. “It won’t stop.”

“Let me see if I understand,” Dio said, his voice breathless and unusually strained. “You’re on a…boat ride? In a dark tunnel filled with animatronic dolls, and have been listening to that for half an hour?”

“That about sums it up, Dio, yeah.”

Another pause.

Then, his uproarious laughter shot through the speaker, and Dio hung up. 

“What did he want?” Diego took a break from glaring at the cancan dancers to look over at you, his expression melting into curiosity. 

“To laugh at us,” you replied darkly, checking your messages. Gyro had let you know he was free the coming weekend, and you began to text him.

I’m trapped on It’s A Small World with Diego, the ride broke down.

Like Dio, Gyro was clearly amused by the whole situation, his reply in all capital letters.

LMFAO SEND ME A PICTURE RIGHT NOW.

Deciding to go for the full effect, you seized Diego’s hat from your purse and shoved it on his head, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and pulling him close.

“Smile,” you said with a cheerfulness you did not feel, forcing a wide grin as Diego glowered at you. You took the picture quickly, and Diego ripped off the hat while wriggling out from your grip.

“Delete that,” he bellowed, reaching for your phone.

“No, I want to remember this,” you teased, sending the photo to Gyro. As an afterthought, you sent it to Dio as well.

“Well, I fucking don’t!”

Gyro responded first.

Oh my god he looks like he’s about to cry. This is perfect. Thank you for this, truly, I needed this today.

“You sent that to Gyro?!” Diego peered at the screen, his face twisted up with anger. “Why would you do that to me?!”

“You gotta admit, it’s a funny picture.”

More quietly, Diego spoke, cracking a wry grin.

“D’you know what, yeah, that is actually funny. Send me that.”

You obliged him, and he forwarded the picture to H.P.

Who’s that? H.P replied, clearly referring to you.

My brother’s girlfriend, Diego typed back, staring at the text for a long moment before erasing ‘girlfriend’ and writing ‘assistant.’ She brought me here against my will.

“I’m still glad you came,” you said, taking your arm off his shoulder. “And why did you type girlfriend?”

“Are you reading my messages? Stay out of my business,” Diego shot back with little venom. “And I didn’t know if they’d be bothered by the fact that I’m at Disneyland with a random woman, I don’t want them getting the wrong idea.”

Though it seemed juvenile, it struck you as endearing—he really did seem to care about them, and what they thought of him. And you were happy for him, the faint tinge of pink on his cheeks and his tiny smile as he read their reply endearing. He deserved to have something that made him happy. Someone that made him happy.

At least one of us is happy.

For the second time, you decided to pry in a little deeper.

“So H.P, they go by they/them?”

“She/they, with a preference for they.”

“You guys have been together…two months now?”

“Something like that,” Diego replied airily, a hint of pride in his voice. Then he gave way to embarrassment, looking down at the water.

“Can I ask you something? And if it leaves this boat I will rip out your entrails with my bare hands.”

“Shoot.”

“Is it weird that we haven’t gone, y’know, all the way yet? H.P always shoots me down when I try, I feel like I’m doing something wrong.”

“No,” you answered after a moment, surprised at the way Diego seemed almost bashful. “They might just be waiting to make sure you’re the right guy, you know? Not everyone jumps headfirst into sex.”

“Like you, you mean,” Diego jabbed, smirking.

“Don’t be a little shit, Diego.”

“You trapped me on this hellscape of a ride, I will absolutely be a little shit. Anyway. That may very well be true, but what bothers me is that they get…I guess cagey? Like the idea of it makes them nervous.”

Pensive, you looked up toward the tartan castles of Scotland to your left and shrugged. The first idea that had come to you was that H.P may have been asexual, the second that they may have been a virgin. Gently suggesting the first, you watched him closely.

“Are they ace?”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“Asexual,” you clarified, looking back to him. “Like, they don’t experience sexual attraction or desire?”

Diego shook his head, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “No, we’ve done other stuff. It’s just never gotten too far.”

You went for the second option.

“Are they a virgin?”

Diego paled.

“I never thought to ask.”

“Maybe you should, they could be a virgin and are nervous about having sex. It’s healthy to ask about that stuff, you know? Communication is key.”

He settled back, a dry smirk on his face.

“Says the woman whose boyfriend ghosted her for two weeks.”

The boat lumbered forward before you could respond, a loud cheer of relief drowning out the incessant and infernal chorus of children above. Diego seemed especially relieved, muttering a quick “oh thank god” as the boat waded into the Germany and Spain portion of the ride. The rest of the ride passed by in relative silence, save for Diego watching a video on YouTube of a woman dressed in period attire cooking turbot.

“What is that?” Looking over his shoulder, you watched as the bespectacled woman showed off a strangely shaped pot, explaining how it was made specifically to cook the fish.

“The true national treasure of England, Mrs. Crocombe,” he answered. “Bloody love her, she’s like a comfort creator for me.”

“Let me watch,” you scooted closer, and Diego tilted the phone toward you.

Once the ride ended, Diego put his phone away and got out of the boat with impressive speed. Clambering up from the rocking boat, you followed him, steering him gently toward Tomorrowland.

“Sorry about the boat trip from hell,” you said as you led him toward the massive grey dome that housed Space Mountain. “But I think I can make it up to you.”

“By paying for my therapy bills? You’re too kind.”

“No,” you pointed to the dome. “Want to go on a roller coaster that mimics hyperspace and watch me panic about being in complete darkness?”

“Absolutely I do, yes,” Diego replied immediately with an emphatic nod, quickening his pace. “Lead the way, woman.”

The rest of the day passed without incident, allowing you reprieve from your thoughts of Dio and Gyro and maniacal priests entombing you alive. Diego had enjoyed Space Mountain in particular, demanding to go on it again once the ride had ended. From Tomorrowland the two of you had made your way back to Adventureland and onto Indiana Jones Adventure, then through New Orleans Square. Enjoying Pirates of the Caribbean, though he did flinch once he noticed the startlingly lifelike recreations of Jack Sparrow scattered through the ride, and begging to go on Haunted Mansion two more times, he almost appeared to enjoy himself.

Until Critter Country, where you had dragged him onto Splash Mountain. Reacting with appropriate horror throughout the log flume ride—“bloody hell, this is racist,” Diego had loudly proclaimed as the ride progressed; filling him in on the history of Song of the South, you could not help but agree wholeheartedly—he went from horror to annoyance as the ride took its final plunge, drenching you both with water. At the end, you had purchased the keepsake photo on a whim, Diego’s wide eyes and sharp frown as he gripped the sides of the log flume too good to pass up.

Leaving once the park had closed, Diego’s good humor had returned, and the two of you spent the car ride talking about the day overall. He had even donned his beat-up hat, saying it was the only thing that could cover his ruined hair. With a bitter smile, you realized this was the most normal you had felt in weeks, remembering with a pang what Gyro had said in his room.

“Normal stopped existing for you the moment you met Dio.”

The house was awash in night by the time you had arrived home, sloughing your way through merciless traffic as the sun set to the west. Diego stepped in first, eyebrows raised, tongue peeking out from the corner of his mouth as he looked around.

“It’s just Dio, here,” Diego whispered. “He’s nearby. Not in his room.”

“Why are all the lights off?”

“Dunno.”

From the shadows, the sound of children singing blared out from the downstairs sound system, and Diego froze.

“It’s a world of laughter, a world of tears. It’s a world of hope, and a world of fears…”

“I’ll bloody kill you, Dio,” Diego shouted over the noise, clamping his hands down over his ears. The lights turned on all at once, and Dio sat up on the couch, a malicious grin wide on his face.

“I should thank you both,” Dio drawled, commanding Alexa to stop the music. “I’ve found a new method of torture.”

“Very funny,” you muttered as Diego cursed under his breath, stomping up the stairs toward his room. “How long have you been sitting in the dark waiting for us to come back?”

“Five minutes, if that,” Dio stood, smirking. “You had fun, I take it? Was it the break you needed?”

“More or less,” you answered, thinking of the Matterhorn and the panic you had felt on Space Mountain.

“Hey,” you said quietly, walking over to Dio. “You don’t get like, claustrophobic or panicky in the dark, do you?”

“No.” His face was enough to show he understood; in his eyes dwelled the memory of his own coffin. “It’ll pass for you, soon.”

“How soon?”

“That is entirely up to you,” he spoke softly as he closed the distance between you, gently lifting your hat off your head and turning it over in his hands. “But rest assured, no harm will come to you again.”

Setting the hat down, he stared at you for a long while, seemingly warring with something beneath the surface. Then he spoke, twirling a strand of your hair in his fingers, his eyes like fire.

“Come upstairs with me.”

You swallowed back the lump in your throat, your face hot.

“Why?”

“To talk,” Dio replied, the look in his eyes saying otherwise. “Nothing more.”

“I can’t,” looking away from Dio, you stepped back. He looked faintly amused, his gaze lingering on your hips.

“You don’t trust me?”

Under his stare you blistered, the room suddenly entirely too small for the two of you. Turning toward the stairs, you shook your head, your mind swimming with the memory of old carpet at your knees and his hair fanned out against the pillows like a halo and how close you had came to throwing it all away for him that night in his bedroom. His eyes on you made your body ache for the feel of silk sheets against your skin, to feel his lips at your throat, and you willed yourself to think of Gyro, of the sweet man you had chosen; to reject the man five feet away, with his dreams of power and a face as beautiful as the Devil’s.

I don’t trust myself.

Chapter Text

“Amore,” he groaned, burying his head into the crook of her neck, dizzy off the smell of coconut scented shampoo and the way her breath hitched. 

It was never supposed to get this far.

“I—don’t stop.”

She clung to him like a life raft, her legs tight around his waist, her body jolting upward in rhythm with each rock of his hips, the clutter on the dresser he had perched her on rattling ever closer to the edge. Against him she felt so soft, her skin supple and slick with sweat; for days, he could wax poetic about the way her bottom lip felt when he bit down on it, how she felt like she was made for him when he was inside her. He could write songs about how her voice sounded like the church bells clanging through Napoli during Mass when she called out his name, how she reminded him of playing at the shore with his little brothers and the spray of the Tyrrhenian Sea on his face in the summer, how she felt like home.

I should have kept my distance.

She dug her nails into his back, her legs tightening at his waist. Her walls clenching around him, she whimpered at his ear, dazed and sated. He leaned back to take the sight in, memorizing the relaxed smile on her lips, bliss highlighting her cheeks with color, her eyes glossed over from it. It spurned him on and he lost himself, his own release shaking through him and leaving him in spurts.

“Fuck,” he breathed, kissing her cheek. “You’re incredible.”

I never should have left Napoli.

A thin rivulet of sweat trickled down her neck and over the scar Dio had left, souring the moment once he had noticed it was there. He was always there, a phantom lording over their most intimate moments, the Sword of Damocles hanging over their heads. Gyro could see the specter of him in her eyes when she would leave, hear the cocky threats he had made against his family whenever his name was brought up. He was the thing that brought them together and kept them apart, and Gyro hated him for it. And what infuriated him more than anything was that he knew, he knew Dio loved her. On some level, he had always known.

And now, he had something in common with his greatest enemy, one he had inherited by birth alone.

He pulled out, eager to get away from it all, slipping off the condom and throwing it out before helping her down from the dresser. Falling to the bed with her, they lay there in silence, Gyro’s eyes fixed on the ceiling. She snuggled into him and placed her hand hand over his heart, laying on her side and watching him with a small smile. The sight of it alone was enough to destroy Gyro, and he hated himself for what he was about to do. 

Yet he knew he had to. For two weeks, he had fought it; he had closed himself off in his room, eating little and sleeping less, staring listlessly at the ceiling and arguing silently with love and reason. He knew the moment he had failed her, the moment he had brought that pain to her eyes as he shouldered his own insecurities onto hers when he should have been consoling her instead. He knew it when Dio had made it clear he was aware of why he had charmed her and brought her to his bed, the silent implication that he would tell her first not lost on him.

He knew it was over, and he desperately wished it was not.

“Hey,” he said softly, not looking at her. He could not bear to bring himself to. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

She said nothing, only watching him silently, her eyes dark. There was a pronounced air of resignation about her as her smile turned bitter, rolling onto her back and staring up at the ceiling. In her quiet he could see it, she that she had known it was coming, he knew it intimately in the slow sigh that left her; he became sure of it in how he had longed in that moment to hold her and tell her he did not mean it. 

When she finally spoke, she sounded strangely guilty.

“Was it something I did?”

What could you have ever done?

“No,” he answered, his throat suddenly dry. “It’s what I did. And that’s why I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

He turned her face to his, a sharp pain stabbing through him at the confusion and hurt in them.

God, I love you. I’m so sorry.

“I lied,” he said, the words tumbling out of him in one rushed breath. Like an avalanche, they fell; he let them go freely, a burden lifted off his chest that did nothing to ease the pain. “You asked me why I had asked you out, and I lied. Back when I asked you out at the cabin, I didn’t just do it because I liked you. I thought if I could get close to you, I could—”

“—Get to Dio,” she finished, and the hurt gave way to anger. “I know. Dio said something along those lines. I thought he was lying to me.”

Gyro swallowed, unconsciously tightening his grip on her.

“He wasn’t,” he said weakly. “He was telling you the truth.”

Her voice was subdued, barely above a whisper as she wrestled herself from his touch. 

“I expected that from him, but not from you.”

He had said it before he could stop himself, those three little words like the steps up to the gallows. In saying them he became the executioner and the one being executed, and he met his fate willingly.

“I love you.”

He had wanted to say more. Every fiber of his being screamed to take it back, to undo it all somehow; to tell her over and over again that he loved her, he would do anything for her, that he would give his life for her. He wanted to tell her that even though their time together had been mercilessly brief, so quickly had she become his everything that it was staggering. He wanted to beg her to leave all of this behind and come with him to Napoli, where they would walk along the bay and he could introduce her to his parents and little brothers. That he would marry her for citizenship, just to make it all real. That he was sure his grandmother would adore her, even though she categorically hated everyone, and would teach her all the family recipes and secrets as they sat together on the veranda drinking vintage red wine. That to him she was perfect, scars and all, and that he would give anything just to live out the rest of his days with her in peace.

He could almost picture it. The sun on her face, her hand in his as they roamed the streets and he showed her every single building or field that held a memory within it. The cozy little beachside cottage, just the two of them. Eventually there would be more, her body filling out and her beauty immeasurable as her belly swelled with his child. Then another, and maybe a third for good measure. A small, intimate wedding—or if she wanted one, an extravagant wedding with everyone either of them had ever known filling the chapel pews. Every atom that made him corporeal ached at the thought; he had never wanted anything more in his life than he had wanted that dream with her.

But eventually that dream would become a nightmare. On tenterhooks they would wait for nightfall, searching for Dio in every crowd, and what could his Stand do to an ageless, immortal vampire? 

She withdrew in on herself, the crack in her voice rending him asunder as she drew in a sharp breath.

“But that doesn’t really matter now,” she said softly, not meeting his eyes. “Does it?”

Take it back, Gyro. Say it all, tell her it matters. 

“No,” he whispered. “It doesn’t.”

With a slow nod, pursing her lips together, she stood and dressed in silence, keeping her head held high as she avoided Gyro’s gaze.

She stopped at the door and turned to him, her face blank.

“I used you, too,” she said tonelessly, her stare unflinching. “In the beginning. But I think you always knew that, didn’t you, Gyro? At least it started the way it ended—you using me to get what you wanted from me for one last time. Was it satisfying? Was it worth it?”

Gyro watched her, silent, searching her face as she gestured to the sheets with a mirthless smile. Beneath the smooth expression she maintained anger burned bright in her eyes, and to a degree, he knew she told the truth. He was well aware that she was seeking out comfort that night, rather than him; he had counted on it. But there was something else there, something given away by the remark about him using her and the set of her jaw as she pointed to where he lay. Even if she had seen the breakup coming, there was genuine hurt in how he had done it, and he could not blame her. And so she sought to wound him in turn, unaware that nothing could make him feel worse than he already had.

“Guess not,” she chuckled wryly, shaking her head. “See you around, Gyro.”

Smoothing her hands over her shirt, she walked out, and he let her. Hating himself for it, he lay there, numbed by the finality of it all.

When he heard the engine of her car turn over and the crunch of gravel beneath rubber faded back to silence, he shakily rose, pulling on a pair of sweatpants haphazardly thrown on the floor. Crossing over to the closet, he rifled through the hangers for a comfortable shirt, pausing once he saw the ratty old teddy bear he had carried with him all his life. He had almost forgotten he had brought it with him to the States; now, he reached for it, unconsciously holding it close to his chest.

“Why did I do that?” Gyro whispered to it, its beaded eyes yielding no answers. “God, why did I do that?”

He threw the teddy bear across the room, running his hands through his long hair and. “I’m a fucking idiot!”

Gyro broke, his calm giving way to despair and he sank to the bed, burying his face in his hands. It was as if he had been laid to siege with a hundred little stabs at the shore of his own ruin, inching ever closer to his heart, ready to bleed him out and leave his body to be carried out to sea—as if he was dying. Blistering warmth gathered at the corners of his eyes, stinging and damp and unforgiving; inside, he felt himself cleaved in two. Allowing himself to break only for a moment, he rose, combing out his hair with his fingers before gathering it into a messy bun at the nape of his neck. In shaky steps he made his way to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face until it felt numb. Then, taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders, took another breath and went back to his room. After a silent moment of debate, Gyro turned to the closet.

He began packing.

In a flurry, he shoved his clothes into random suitcases; he had far more than he had came with, and those he didn’t want he shoved into garbage bags to donate to Goodwill. The Bronco, he would leave for Caesar—a farewell gift for a man that was far kinder to him than he deserved. Some things, he set aside for Johnny: a beat up old Black Sabbath t-shirt he had mentioned on several occasions liking, a hoodie he had only worn twice, a couple knickknacks he had admired and instructions on how to care for Valkyrie until he could arrange for her transport back home. When he was finished, surrounded by overstuffed suitcases and trash bags, he sat down on the bed and booked a one way flight to Naples.

Then, numb, he stood and made his way to the kitchen, pouring a glass of wine up to the brim and taking a deep drink. When Caesar came home two hours later, it was to find Gyro still sitting at the dining table, his expression bleak. His hair lay in disarray, falling in large chunks out of the haphazard bun he had thrown it in, his eyes faintly red. 

“I’m leaving,” he said quietly, drumming his fingertips against the wood. “I booked a flight for Napoli next week.”

“Oh,” Caesar said after a moment, surprise halting his speech. “When will you be back?”

“Don’t know,” Gyro answered. He scowled, shaking his head. “Yes I do, I don’t know why I lied just now. I’m not coming back, Caesar. I’m done. I don’t want to fight Dio, I don’t—I don’t want any of this.”

For a moment, Caesar simply stood there, eyebrows raised in mild shock, unsure of what to make of it all. Never had he seen Gyro so diminished, so battered, and the sight of it now perturbed him. Taking in his disheveled state and the red rim along his eyes, how muted their chrysolite depths shone, he could not at all understand the sudden change.

But had it been sudden? For two weeks, Gyro had sequestered himself to his room, music playing softly over a Bluetooth speaker. Elliott Smith, Jeff Buckley, The Smiths, Bon Iver, Damien Rice, it played long into the night, just barely muting the fitful steps across the floorboards. There was something wrong, something had been wrong for a while. And she had stopped coming around, Gyro making excuse after excuse to explain away her skipping training and sudden return to Dio’s mansion.

Then, he understood, and he sat next to Gyro and brought him close. 

In his arms, he was no longer the cocky and arrogant man that he had grown up to be. He was simply Iulius, his blood, he was the young boy with wide green eyes that had begged Caesar to fight the monsters under his bed whenever he had came to visit and laughed in delight when Joseph would show off his ineptitude with his clackers. The same boy that, at four years old, had climbed up into his lap and whispered that he had wished Caesar would take him away because Gregorio never gave him hugs like Caesar did. In his arms, Caesar’s heart broke for the boy that had grown too quickly into a man, for the man that had only wanted to be loved and yet never found it in return.

“I fucked up,” Gyro sobbed into his chest; his composure had flown out the window the moment Caesar had brought him into a hug. “I broke up with her, she’s gone.”

That had caught Caesar by surprise, he had assumed it was the other way around. That she had left him for Dio, that his suspicions had been confirmed all along. Not that Gyro had called it off. Deciding not to press the issue, he let Gyro fall to pieces.

“I’m sorry,” Caesar whispered, rubbing his back. “Oh, mio caro pronipote, I’m so sorry.”

“I love her, Nonno.”

“I know you do, Iulius,” Caesar murmured in a soothing voice. 

“I wasn’t supposed to.”

Tilting his head to the side, Caesar leaned back, one eyebrow raised.

“Why do you say that? Because I didn’t approve at first? Even if I didn’t, it’s your life. And to be honest, I did—I do, like her.”

Gyro looked up at him, his eyes like those of a man drowning. 

“No. I thought…I thought if I could get her to like me, we could have an advantage over Dio and defeat him. It was stupid. But I just wanted this all to be done with so I could go back home, I didn’t—I didn’t think it through, I didn’t think I would love her.”

“What?” Caesar’s tone went from consoling to reproachful, and he looked down at Gyro in dismay. “Why would you do something like that?”

“I know, okay? I know that’s fucked up.”

“That’s why you broke up with her?”

“No,” Gyro shook his head. “Not just that. Do you remember when I said I had taken her out for the day to take her mind off everything?”

He had went quiet, looking away from Caesar as he spoke.

“Yes,” Caesar answered, watching Gyro intently. He had known from the minute he had said it that there was more to that story, and he knew now that he would find out what had been withheld.

“I lied about that. She had snuck out in the middle of the night to see Dio. When he had shown up at Joseph’s, it was to give her a Stand Arrow, and she wanted to confront him about it. I went to find her, Dio called me and said she had been kidnapped by Enya Geil.”

Caesar said nothing, a knot forming in his stomach. 

That explains the move and the absence, Caesar thought, making a mental note to call Joseph and demand to know why this had been kept from him.

“Dio said he’d kill my little brothers if I didn’t find her. Then my parents, then you, then Joseph and everyone else. And that he’d record it and make me watch it as he killed me last. I realized something that day, Nonno. No matter what, we would never be able to be happy together. He would always be there, and any wrong move would put me, you, and everyone else I love in danger. It felt like I had to make a choice, lose everything or lose her.”

At that Caesar softened, his disappointment in his and Joseph’s duplicity lessened by the truth behind Gyro’s reason. 

“But,” Gyro added, his voice breaking. “I don’t want to lose her. That’s why I need to leave. I can’t look at her, all I’ll be able to see is everything I could have had.”

Caesar was at a loss for words, unsure what to say to lift the burden in his heart. He, by comparison, had been lucky in love—he had married his wife in 1943, and like Joseph had lived happily with her until she had died before Gyro was born. Hollow platitudes like ‘you’ll find the right woman for you soon’ seemed far too disingenuous; silence seemed cruel.

“Iulius,” Caesar said gently, a small frown creased along his mouth. “Sometimes, the only thing you can do for the people you love is the thing that hurts the most. Right now, the best thing for everyone’s safety is letting her go. Hers included. But yours especially.”

“I know,” he whimpered. “But I wish it wasn’t.”

Caesar rose from the table and went to refrigerator, fishing out a bottle of wine and two glasses. Then, pausing, he set the wine back in the refrigerator, closed it, and moved over to the liquor cabinet. Taking out a bottle of whiskey Joseph had bought him for Christmas, he returned to the table and poured one for himself and Gyro, sliding it over to him with a sigh.

“For you, so do I.”

Gyro downed his shot in one gulp, wincing at the way it burned.

“What do I do now?”

“Now? You go to Napoli next week, you take a breather, and you hug your little brothers and your mom and send them my love. Then you come back. You have to come back.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I know, Gyro, but this is bigger than what we want. And you know that. Dio will stop at nothing, and we need everyone we can get to stop him. We both know he’ll break whatever shaky truce is in place soon. And who do you think will be in the most danger?”

“Her,” Gyro whispered, horrified.

“Her.”

Resolute, Gyro grabbed the bottle and poured himself another shot.

“Then I’ll cancel the flight. If he makes a move while I’m in Napoli, I’m of no use.”

He drank the shot and stood, heading to his room to unpack. Even if she could never forgive him for how he had won her over and how he had broke her heart, he would make it up to her by fighting to save her. Even if he died trying. Death would be preferable to giving up a coward, seeing the look of shame in his father’s eyes. He would still fight, Gyro decided as he cleared out the first suitcase. Caesar was right, this was bigger than his pain.

But deep down, even as he unpacked, he knew that she was lost to him now. Deep down, he knew full well she was never his to begin with.

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