[ Fate's a funny thing. If it does exist, Bruno thinks he must be its plaything. Only a short handful of weeks ago, he'd taken an order from Polpo to clean up a little mess regarding Leaky-eye Luca. A few days later, he was dead. And a few days after that... he wasn't. Against all odds, he wasn't. His nerves are still thrumming with a dull ache across his body, his flesh tender and sore around the pockmarks of bullet wounds left by Mista, punctures from his fight with Oasis. The garish wound that ended his life is a scab crossing his left side, deep and ugly towards his heart - but not quite reaching it. That was the peculiar thing. There's a faint ringing in his ears, still, and a receding blurriness to his eyes, but he's alive.
Maybe he's fate's plaything, but Giorno and his Stand have become its masters. It's the only way he can rationalize it. The resolve he'd seen in that boy, that day, had been no lie. If any other fifteen-year-old boy suddenly found himself sitting in Passione's throne, he'd scoff - but Giorno's face and heart were hard as steel, and he'd already performed more miracles in a week and change than Bruno had ever seen in his entire life. This is correct, he felt. This is fate. And for once in his life, Bruno stepped back and let someone else take the reins. His body was battered and in need of rest, for one thing. For another, he wasn't the only one of fate's playthings that was somehow left standing when the dust cleared. ]
It should be livable. We can buy whatever else you need when we get there.
[ The sky and sea scroll by outside the window of Bucciarati's car (his actual car, not a rental: a perhaps-flashier-than-expected Maserati), and if one didn't know better, one wouldn't know that he'd had both feet in the grave not too long ago - other than being a bit more covered up than usual to hide his various healing injuries and the slight pallor to his skin, he looks as sharp as ever. To his eyes, Trish looks much the same. But he's smart enough to know that she's carrying most of her injuries on the inside. The urban center of Naples is somewhere beyond the rear window; he's driving now to a smaller town in its outskirts by the sea. One where he owns a property that's soon to be Trish's. ]
How are you feeling? [ he keeps his eyes on the road, and his voice is as measured and serious as ever, but the question's an honest one. He can't help but be worried. That's why he's here, against his better judgement. Technically, he's not associated with Passione at the moment - and, privately, he's concerned there might still be people out there with an eye on Trish. Naturally, he hasn't said either of these things to the girl herself. ]
for twish
Maybe he's fate's plaything, but Giorno and his Stand have become its masters. It's the only way he can rationalize it. The resolve he'd seen in that boy, that day, had been no lie. If any other fifteen-year-old boy suddenly found himself sitting in Passione's throne, he'd scoff - but Giorno's face and heart were hard as steel, and he'd already performed more miracles in a week and change than Bruno had ever seen in his entire life. This is correct, he felt. This is fate. And for once in his life, Bruno stepped back and let someone else take the reins. His body was battered and in need of rest, for one thing. For another, he wasn't the only one of fate's playthings that was somehow left standing when the dust cleared. ]
It should be livable. We can buy whatever else you need when we get there.
[ The sky and sea scroll by outside the window of Bucciarati's car (his actual car, not a rental: a perhaps-flashier-than-expected Maserati), and if one didn't know better, one wouldn't know that he'd had both feet in the grave not too long ago - other than being a bit more covered up than usual to hide his various healing injuries and the slight pallor to his skin, he looks as sharp as ever. To his eyes, Trish looks much the same. But he's smart enough to know that she's carrying most of her injuries on the inside. The urban center of Naples is somewhere beyond the rear window; he's driving now to a smaller town in its outskirts by the sea. One where he owns a property that's soon to be Trish's. ]
How are you feeling? [ he keeps his eyes on the road, and his voice is as measured and serious as ever, but the question's an honest one. He can't help but be worried. That's why he's here, against his better judgement. Technically, he's not associated with Passione at the moment - and, privately, he's concerned there might still be people out there with an eye on Trish. Naturally, he hasn't said either of these things to the girl herself. ]