"I was in college when I was thirteen. Università di Bologna. Volpe was in the same class as me." Fugo picked up the picture, and looked closer at it. The same dark rings under his eyes, the eyes like clouded glass. He'd barely changed at all.

"Each attack you make, thirty percent of it affects you. But only 1/53rd of it reaches me. There's no comparison. 30% versus 1.3% – that's a difference you'll never overcome. I'm your natural predator. No matter how you fall, you can't beat me." "Aaaaaaugh!"

Any backup they send will come with orders to kill me. This is not a world where the incompetent survive. No exceptions. Sheila E would be fine. She had no previous failures. She hadn't betrayed anyone, hadn't fled in the face of danger.

Six months ago, he learned of his father's death. His father had placed a gun to his temple, and pulled the trigger. Most men would see that as a suiсide. Gianluca was not most men. Papà gave his life to the boss for mine.

He attacked anyone who approached – he'd been turned into a land mine. The instincts and techniques he'd mastered crawling his way up from poverty to a position of some influence in the mob had been reduced to reflexive responses.

I dunno who said any of this shit, but someone did, and I...I gotta avoid that, I gotta feel alive, so..." He started cutting himself again.

Vladimir Kocaqi

He was staring right at them. He'd been waiting for them – there was no way he was here by chance. But for him to be alone... Murolo spun around, looking this way and that, but there was no one else around. Not a trace of Kocaqi's team.

The road where she had relied on him, had come to him for support and followed close behind him – the truth was that it had been over from the very beginning. While she was being saved, he had already been affixed with a “purpose served” label and sent to the afterlife.

"But the name Sale...that's a very salty name! Get it? Because it means salt! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha hah! Sale! Salty! God damn, that's funny!"

He attacked anyone who approached – he'd been turned into a land mine. The instincts and techniques he'd mastered crawling his way up from poverty to a position of some influence in the mob had been reduced to reflexive responses.

Sheila E stared down at the yacht a moment, then had Voodoo Child pick up a boulder and fling it at the yacht. "Eriiiiiii!" It hit the yacht at such high speed it went all the way through, and the ship sank. "Jesus," Murolo said.

A week had passed since the battle in Sicily. The sound of Fugo's cough echoed through the dimly lit restaurant. It was very early, well before the place opened, so there were no customers. The man who'd shown him to his seat had vanished, leaving him alone.

There was a man standing there. Clapping. The mask moved over to his feet, and stopped. He was something of a dandy, with a Borsalino hat – it was Cannolo Murolo.

Passione, in its early days, had gained the trust of the people by fighting against the abuses of older organizations. This was all for show; the founder, Diavolo, simply saw it as an effective way to broaden his power quickly.

Angelica was in the corner, sobbing. Vittorio had tried to comfort her several times, but to no avail. Each failure led to more self-hаrm.

"I get it." "No, you don't. You don't, and Dad doesn't. He at least laments the state of the world...you simply ignore it." That was the last thing his brother said, the last time he saw him.

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

Finally she caught him. She grabbed his collar and dragged him onto some nearby rocks. His heart was beating, but he wasn't breathing. She tried CPR. Pinched his nose, put her lips to his, and blew. On the fourth try he coughed, spit up water, and started breathing again.

Fugo's teeth wanted to chatter, but he forced them to lie still. He felt like a frog frozen in a snake's glare, but at least he had earned a stay of execution. Again.

His fist hit only empty air. Volpe closed the five meters between him and Fugo, and was right on top of him, crossing the final line. Then...just as she was certain Fugo was done for, she noticed something. ...hunh? Something strange. Something that made absolutely no sense.

Fugo stood up, and headed down the hall. Sheila E followed him, letting him lead. "Why'd you leave the door open? Anyone could get in." "Can't hear people coming if I shut it." "You claustrophobic?" "…............."

"Calling me kid. You know I'm older than you, right?" "So? I've been a made man for over a year." "Yeah, but..." Narancia didn't look happy about it. Fugo knew why. He didn't want to be beholden to anyone but Buccellati – he didn't care about Passione's hierarchy.

"Yeah. You know that's a lie. You were with us right before it all went down." Mista's gun remained pointed right at Fugo's head. "You were with us before Diavolo – the real boss – killed Buccellati and the others." Fugo's throat felt dry, but he didn't dare swallow.

As he fell forever, Fugo felt an urge rising within him. An rigid, stoney urge, that entombed his heart, allowing nothing else in. Filling his very soul.

This was a restaurant, but he was unable to eat anything. The virus had died out in an instant, but had rampaged through his mouth, damaging it badly, and the inner layer of his respiratory tract has been peeled away, left in tatters.

He felt like her attitude had changed recently. At first she'd spent a lot of time glaring at him, but now she seemed to be doing her best not to make eye contact. Perhaps because he'd strangled her during the fight against Kocaqi.

Was that why Trish had been so hostile? She was trying to maintain some degree of control – a desperate attempt to protect herself? She wasn't acting haughty because she was the boss's daughter, but because she was trying to keep herself safe? Still...

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

Mista cocked an eyebrow, but let it drop. "Okay, then tell me...you got anything to say to me? Anything you want to know? I'll answer what I can." Fugo stood in silence for a long moment. Then he made up his mind.