"It grips you so hold me
It stains you so hold me
It hates you so hold me
It holds you so hold me"

"Hey leader."

Said leader of the Execution Squadron, Risotto Nero, looked up from a laptop to Formaggio, who sat on the couch across from him. Unsaid cue to go on taken, he tilted his head inquiringly, "Is that a bullet wound scar?" Formaggio motioned towards his abdominal area with a finger, "How'd that happen? Got to have been before your got your stand, right?"

Risotto turned his dark eyes towards the faint, faded scar. Left exposed with his trench coat being pulled back. He hadn't thought about the incident in a long while, he'd nearly forgotten about it. The mark being so faint and typically hidden.

Illuso, Sorbet, Gelato, and Pesci keyed into the conversation from their respective places around the room. The Prosciutto simply glanced momentarily before continuing to clean blood off his necklace's pendant. He'd known Risotto longer than the rest and already knew of the moment in question.

With more eyes on him, their leader began to divulge, "Yes, it had been a years before I gained my stand and only a couple of years after I began my career as a hitman. My skilled had yet to be refined. The incident nearly killed me."

Sorbet's expression shifted in surprise and remarked, "Hard to imagine you in such a position, but I've only known you with your stand. How'd you make it out of there?"

"A child directed my pursuers away from me." Risotto answered, tone vacant of reflection though his mind replayed the event.

The boy, Giorno Giovanna, as he later found his name to be, had saved him with a simple gesture and lie. There'd been a strange look of understanding in his eyes while the rest of the expression was oddly composed for a child. The reason for it was unfortunate to say the least, the boy's life hadn't been the best-he understood what helplessness felt like. Risotto used what influence and means he had, at the time, to improve the child's life, but it had been some time since then. The location of the boy's home was out of the way from his team's headquarters and his job left him on the move often, or busy managing his men.

However, location of his current target though, would leave him an opportunity once it was complete. Said target wouldn't be much of a hassle, simply a member of a newly formed nuisance of a mafia group. Highly unlikely to have a stand to challenge his Metallica. Without one to oppose, his would make it simple for him to take out his target and leave spare time take a stop to Giorno's home.

His thoughts were put on hold when his men questioned him further. Nothing critical of him, simply curious and he explained. They were all murders, killers, cruel and ruthless to varying degrees, but they all held respect and loyalty to one another. Most of all their leader. If it wasn't for this child, he wouldn't be here with them. This drew more intrigue from them than prior. Even more so when Risotto divulged his perceived debt to the boy and the efforts, he'd made, to better his life. While nothing was said, but the assassins shared the sentiment of their leader. Of course, anything coming of it was unlikely. Giorno's name never came up, Risotto felt no need to share it, and they knew nothing of his appearance. It was a novel sentiment if anything.

Eventually said novelty wore off, the assassins went back to whatever they had been doing prior and time continued on. Prosciutto and Pesci left back to their home. Formaggio began a game of cards when Sorbet and Gelato, the three having drinks while exchanging banter. Illuso slipped back into the mirror world. To do what or why, he didn't say, nor was it considered need to know by the ones that remained in their headquarters. Illuso had always had a habit of leaving unannounced.

Risotto quietly plotted out his course of action in eliminating his target-and anyone else that got in the way, as ordered. Those playing cards made no attempt to draw him into their game, knowing it'd be denied in favor of work. While it was a simple hit in his mind, Risotto had long learned from his near fatal incident. It wouldn't happen again, and it hadn't since. He closed the laptop when he found the plan to be satisfactory, drew himself up to his full height, and stalked to the door. He gave a farewell to his comrades for the time being, they returned it, and the door was shut.

Air, heavily labored with the all too familiar smell of iron, was rattled by guttural, pained, gasp and a choked, clogged, yell. Risotto stood back, hidden by his Metallica's invisibility technique, and watched apathetically as his main target hacked up razorblades. The sight was horridly grotesque, but after years of seeing similar sights the effect had longed dulled to him. He'd done similar to a couple of cohorts of his target, of which lay dead elsewhere in the building. His target had gone to see what the ghastly sounding commotion was, when screws suddenly erupted from his hand.

The shock caused him to stumble back into the room, allowing Risotto to enter. The closer he was to his target the quicker Metallica was able produce objects. The man had been too, understandably, terrified to notice his entrance, though Risotto doubted he'd be perceptive enough regardless. Those with stands had difficulty detecting him often enough. One without wouldn't be able to reason what was happening-as his target currently was, in the drastically shriveling remainder of his life.

Metallica continued its work, forming more razorblades from a distance from within its user's very veins. Eventually, enough had been created that the man's throat was utterly shredded, and he collapsed, dead, in a sizable pool of his own blood.

From where he stood, Risotto looked over his work, undoubtedly the criminal was dead. Even if he had faint traces of life left, he'd pass soon enough, with his throat torn asunder as it was. Satisfied and mission completed, he turned and left the room. Risotto paid little mind to the corpses that he passed by and exited out the back. He'd arrived while other cohorts were out to grab some food, he'd observed as much during his days casing their hideout. They likely wouldn't be back for a while longer, but it was best to avoid chance altogether.

As expected, the job had been easy. A scratch hadn't been laid on him, as expected of the execution squad's leader. He'd completed his task with time to spare. More than enough to make a quick side visit. Once he reported his completed task.

The time spent typing away on his laptop, in his hotel room, allowed Risotto to think on what he was about to do. Before he gained Metallica and joined Passione, he checked in on Giorno often enough, to ensure the work he'd done remained. Even some time after gaining his stand, he continued the trend; however, as he gained men his time dwindled quickly. He had others under his care and management. Work piled and their unsteady income made things difficult to manage funds. Much as he felt guilt towards it, Giorno had faded from his mind. Some may think he was fretting over nothing, Risotto found it disgraceful. So long as he lived, he owed the boy. He knew he couldn't be there on the day to day, or even weekly, but when time was available, he should've checked in. He'd sworn he'd never forget what he'd done, yet he had.

It was an error he would correct today. He just hoped the child hadn't moved since his last check-in. Risotto sent his report and leaned back in his chair, it was getting late, he'd find out tomorrow.

The children are still playing nice. Risotto thought as he watched, once more invisible, the former bullies walk home alongside Giorno. The boy had grown but was still recognizable by the assassin. The dark hair and, uncharacteristically, stoic expression for a child were an easy give away. Sadly, he could relate to the reason why, being exposed to how harsh life could be early on would force such a development-especially at the hands of pitiful excuses for caregivers. Of which, was his main concern. The neglectful mother and abusive father.

He followed the group of children from a good distance across the street. Occasionally having to weave out of the way of bystanders or take detours before catching up again. Tedious but doable for the assassin. As he'd hoped, the home location hadn't changed. Good, that made things easier. By then the other children had departed to their own homes, leaving Giorno to head inside on his own. When the door was shut, Risotto turned his attention to the building next to it. The home wasn't on the first floor, so he'd have to do a bit of climbing which was manageable with his own physical strength. The natural magnetism his stand gave off, helped his grasp stay firmly on the metal balcony bars while he climbed.

Still invisible, and further hidden in the shade, he observed the goings on of the home through the open curtain window. The home was, thankfully, not in disrepair and serviceably clean, at least from what he could see. A brief scan around what was visible and observation, from Giorno not greeting anyone, told him neither of his parents were home. He frowned, the father he could understand; he had work, the mother, far as he knew, did not. She was possibly off gallivanting again. To avoid jumping to conclusions, he remained where he was and watched from balcony. His perch was maintained so the home was occupied, an ashtray sat mounted on the railing suggested a frequent smoker. He'd likely have to leave upon their arrival home.

As Risotto sat, he reflected to himself, while waiting for something of interest to occur. Thus far, Giorno had made food for himself and gone to his room. Family trouble was something not unfamiliar to the assassin.

He, himself, hadn't known his biological parents or at least not that he could remember. At a young age he was given to his relatives, where he grew up with his cousin who became a sister to him. His surrogate parents were similar in ways to Giorno's. It was also through his uncle he learned of the mafia, he'd not been a part of Passione-which had yet to form, and lacked a stand, but was a criminal, nonetheless. He was strict, at times nearly harsh, but not unfair. Risotto could say he respected him, but their relationship lacked any warmth or real connection. He was treated more as an obligation. His aunt was harsher, words often came in yells or a swing of a wooden spoon. She'd never seen him as her own. He was always at fault for something. His uncle rarely intervened, Risotto never learned of his position, but it was enough that he was gone frequently.

It was his cousin that was the light of his life at the time, she was kind and caring. Comforted him when he needed it and got him out of the home to enjoy life, to have fun. She kept things bearable for him, she was the one he could call family. When he turned ten, their uncle left and never came back, later he was found dead. Risotto recalled not being surprise. It was to be expected when one dealt with the underworld of society. However, it made things notably worse for him. They had lost a significant source of income making his aunt more easily agitated and begin to drink. She worked at produce store, where he and his cousin had to pitch in with her from then on. They adjusted to the new norm eventually. Until the light of his life was extinguished.

Risotto recalled it too vividly for his likely, even as time had passed. It wasn't a moment he revisited often, yet recalled with near pristine clarity. It was late at night, he and his cousin had to run a last-minute errand for their demanding, drunk aunt. He, then fourteen, and her had gone together for safety. They had the bought items with no trouble and went to cross the road. She ran across and he'd stopped, a loud screech stunned him in place. Everything after happened quickly. By the time he realized what'd the sound had been from…the words of warning formed in his throat. Only to been caught in place but a deafening slam of car against body. His body went ridged and the blood drained from his face.

Fact the hit had resulted in the driver crashing into the side of a building, didn't register to him as he stared at the smear of blood on the asphalt in front of him. His hands clenched reflexively in present, the visage of his cousin's mangled body coming to the forefront of his mind. His young body trembled uncontrollably before he screamed her name, Arborio. Tears streamed and he ran to her body, she was already gone. Bystanders pulled him away, attempting to comfort him, but he'd gone deaf as he tried to process how and why she'd been taken from him.

A car door opening snapped him back to reality, followed shortly by rage. The drunkard had survived the crash, completely oblivious to the innocent life he'd taken. The ones that'd been attempting to comfort him had to restrain him when he attempted to charge the man. Risotto screamed his anger out until his throat was became sore and grief overwhelmed him, bringing him to his knees. A numbness took over by the time police arrived, taking the murder away. Risotto watched the car leave in a cold silence. He knew he wasn't going get enough punishment for this, a few measly years in prison. Then he'd be free to continue life as if nothing had happened.

When his aunt arrived to get him, he didn't register her presence until she took his arm to escort him back home. Things were quietly somber for some time afterwards. The funeral came and went, condolences meant nothing to Risotto. His aunt became kinder to him, why now? Because he was all she had left? It filled his him with a conflicted bitterness. Perhaps he could've come to accept that she'd realized some error, if she hadn't started to drink more.

The sight of coming home to her drinking one day he recalled well, he'd flung into a rage. How could she sink to the same low as the man that'd killed Arborio? An argument escalated between the two. A bottle was tossed at him. It narrowly missed his head. Glass shards sliced the side of his face. Silence filled air as blood trickled down the side of his face.

Risotto remembered the hot venomous in his veins as he ground out words between clenched teeth, "If you hadn't been drunk that night. We wouldn't have had to go out. It's your fault she died."

Risotto knew now that was unfair to say, he'd allowed anger to choose his words for him. He'd heard her sobbing after he shut himself away in his room.

As expected, the drunk driver got sentenced to jail for four years. Throughout the trial Risotto had glared at the man, he saw no remorse. He'd pleaded guilty, there was no point in denial the evidence was too great. It was then that Risotto decided, once he was free, he'd kill the man. If he held no remorse, then he'd bare no forgiveness.

The muted sound of a door being opened from the within home behind him, yanked Risotto back to the present. How long had it been? Difficult to tell. He briskly scanned the windows of Giorno's home, no signs of the parents. Agitation brushed against his nerves, but he restrained judgement, both could be at work still. Risotto looked through the large paned windows of the balcony doors. The male occupant unfortunately made an immediate B-line for his location. No time wasted, the assassin climbed over the railing and let himself drop down to the alley bellow. By the time the man was on the balcony the assassin was back across the street, leaving him none the wiser to his ever being there.

I'll return later after work-hours have passed. Risotto decided inwardly as he headed his way back to his hotel.

Sound of a leather belt striking against skin cut through the air. Giorno winced again under the force, arms up in attempt to shield himself. He knew this wouldn't do much good, it'd only encourage insults towards his perceived cowardice, but it was a reflex he couldn't help. The berating was more of the same he'd heard before. The man had gotten upset with his trying to read him. For a few years, things had been peaceful. His father more often restrained himself, though was clearly unhappy to do so and convinced his mother to be around more. Then, after some time since last seeing the gangster he'd saved, gradually things devolved to the way they had been. Only the children and other locals remained friendly towards him. In fact, the guardianship of the gangster seemed to have angered his father-in-law.

A half-stifled yelp bubbled from Giorno as he was picked up by the shirt collar dragged across the room, "Get to your room, you creepy little brat." At that he yanked the boy forward, causing him to tumble out of the room. As the child pulled himself up the father scoffed, "Seemed that bastard didn't care about you after all, now get out of my sight."

Giorno gave one last look to the man before he quietly escorted himself back to his room. His father in-law grunted to himself sat back down on the table, grumbling that he'd had to make a meal for himself. His wife was honestly lucky she was so good-looking, or he wouldn't put up with her staying out as late as she did. She'd come home then gotten a call from a friend and went right back out. A part time job, she hardly went to, was the best he could get from her, housework was infrequently done, but that's where the kid was useful at least.

Light suddenly was blocked out behind him, caused the father-in-law to go ridged and to drop his utensils. Thoughts questioning when and how were interrupted by a distinctly familiar, deep voice. "One would think that an adult could manage to follow set rules while unsupervised. Seemed I gave you too much credit."

Behind him, Risotto Nero, sat leaned back on the window frame, his legs keeping him propped up. He observed the faux parental caregiver before him as he stood stock still, jaw agape in building fear. Before even a question of when or how could piece together in his mind, a blistering pain erupted from his right shoulder. Right after, Risotto's hand clamped down on his mouth. The window and the table weren't far from each other, but the suddenness of the events made it seem unreal and all the more alarming. His heart was already pounding loudly enough to reach his eardrums, paired with just as quick, frantic breaths.

"I warned you not to break the rules of our agreement. You won't be receiving another chance." Risotto's voice sounded leveled and calm, but internally his blood was boiling. This man had used his mistake to verbally wound Giorno. It'd been bad enough that he'd made the error in the first place, but having it used in such a manner had decided the man's fate. Originally, he was going to just berate him, threaten him and use Metallica to show him he wouldn't tolerate further disobedience. That plan of action was long forgone.

The Father-in-law attempted to pull the man's hand off his mouth, whether to scream or try and reason he didn't know. Unfortunately for him, Risotto was strong enough keep hold and wrench one of his prying arms backwards in a painful manner. Panic skyrocketed when he began to feel something forming in his throat. Something thin, long, and sharp. Gradually he could feel it cutting its way through muscle, veins and arteries. Muted sounds of panic and gags pushed their way through the assassin's hand. Blood followed shortly behind what looked to be a box-cutter's blade that sprung up from the jugular. A brief spray of blood flew into the air. His victim's airway clogged with blood Risotto released the father-in-law from his grip, allowing him to crumple onto the floor. Several nails expedited the death by piercing through from within the crook of the neck. The man choked to death on his own blood before he bled out at the foot of the table, a look of shocked horror frozen on his face.

Risotto took the napkin from the table, careful not to touch anything but it, and wiped the blood off his hands. As he cleaned of a small splatter of blood on his face, resulted from the boxcutter blade, he examined the items from the screws in throat and shoulder to the blade to be sure they were up to his standard of craft. Satisfied with their make, he deposited the bloodied napkin into his coat pocket.

That taken care for, he turned his eyes towards the hallway. This, wasn't what he had planned, but there was no turning back now.

Giorno sat at his desk, going over school studies in order to distract himself from his stomach gnawing at itself. He really didn't need to, his was doing well in all of his classes. He needed to. Otherwise his father would become ever more upset with him, no matter if it was a test or not, as it made him look bad. Or he'd claim that bad marks upset, worried his mother. Giorno knew that wasn't true, young as he was, he hardly knew his mother. There was no connection between him and his parents, no bond, no love, nothing. He was a stranger living in household that didn't want him here. Much as he kept a neutral expression, it hurt deeply in the roots of his core that desired acceptance and parental affections. Like any child would. He'd tried to gain approval to no response or worse yet, negative response. His father wanted nothing to do with him, he wasn't "his" son and his mother, at best, used him as a show piece while in public. When at home he felt more like a pet-a nuisance.

At times he'd contemplated running away, but where would he go? He knew his "friends" were only being kind due to some sort of incitement from the mafia. Perhaps some sort of earnest feelings had come of it over time, but Giorno couldn't forget the torment they'd inflicted on him. How much like scum they'd made him feel. No, he couldn't turn to them if he ran away. He didn't know where the gangster he'd saved live, he didn't even know his name, and only had a vague idea of his face.

He was alone still. He was stuck here.

Giorno shifted as hunger became insistent again. He wondered how long his father would stay awake tonight. Likely until his mother returned, then they'd go into their room together. While they were busy, he could probably finally get something to eat.

The young boy blinked at the sounds of footsteps nearing his room. He looked over his shoulder at the plain wooden door to his room. The stride of the footsteps was unfamiliar. Over the years, he'd become very familiar with the pattern of his father's gait. In order to get a read of his mood before he opened the door.

This was a completely different person. It had to be. The stride sounded notably longer than his father's. A longer stride meant a taller person. It definitely wasn't his mother, who always had the distinct click of high heels. Giorno shifted carefully to face the door, he hadn't heard anyone enter their home. He was certain he'd have heard the front door open or at least his father' address a visitor. This had to be an intruder of some kind. The fact he hadn't heard his father react in anyway was far from a good sign.

Giorno started to tremble, he was helpless, alone, and afraid again.

"Who's there?" He managed to keep his words steady enough, but a child's voice wasn't assertive whatsoever.

Once the footsteps stopped on the other side of his doorway, there was a momentary pause before the door began to open. The time it took was longer than it should've been. Drawn out by the anxious fear of a child. His trembling seized up, when the darkly clad form of a tall man filled the open doorway. He didn't recognize this man, yet something about his presence seemed oddly familiar. Quick as he could get himself to, Giorno took in aspects of the intruder in attempt to find the trigger of this feeling.

The person was easily fix feet tall, broad shouldered and clearly muscular, showcased by the exposed chest. The physical difference was not comforting, nor was the fact he had no tools within reach to attempt to defend himself. However, the man didn't seem to have any weapons, but the black trench he wore could be hiding something. His eyes were next drawn to his face. It looked vaguely familiar, but the silver hair and dark eyes contradicted that feeling. Giorno was certain he'd recall such unique traits. This left him uncertainly staring at the man from behind the back of his chair.

"It's been some time, Giorno." The baritone voice of the man, caused something to click in Giorno's mind. His fear began to flee from him. As he walked further into his room he felt more at ease as he spoke, memories beginning to return. "Forgive me for not checking in as a frequently as I used to."

Giorno stared up at the man as he neared, fear washed away by recognition. It was the mafioso he'd saved. His brow knitted in slight confusion, he was unsure whether he'd recalled his hair and eye color incorrectly or something had changed. He decided it was unimportant. Giorno was certain that this was the man that'd changed his life for the better. He'd recalled the voice well from his times of revisiting the fateful memory, helped by the distinctness of it.

"You look different…" Giorno noted, unsure of what else to say. He wanted to say a lot of things, ask things. His current focus won over more pressing words.

The man knelt down to his eye level, causing the black coat to spill out onto the floor around him. Giorno's eyes flicked around, taking in the details of his guardian's face, as well as the jester hat he wore. He found that the orbs at the end of the hat tails bared letters, but he didn't see which ones as the man spoke again. His attention to shift away. His voice was even but bared an underlying softness, "Things have changed, since we last saw each other."

A pause spaced out his sentences. It seemed he was trying to figure a way of properly putting what he had next to say. "Giorno, I know you're wondering why I'm here." Giorno nodded. The man gave his explanation, a gentle pressure added to his tone. "I want you to come with me."

Giorno's expression and posture became more alert. This was something he'd faintly wished for, but felt would never come to be after accepting his distant behavior. His elation halted/ The connection between why he hadn't heard his father prior to his guardian's arrival, and why he still hadn't, was made.

"What did you do to my father?" Giorno asked quietly, eyes meeting the other's black and red ones.

The gangster's expression didn't shift whatsoever. His voice remained calm, "He can't hurt you anymore."

Giorno said nothing but indiscernible emotion filled his eyes. His guardian's tone reflected something similar, an earnest plea just below the surface of his tone that faltered the collected demeanor. He continued, "Your parents have disrespected your life with selfishness for their own, broken your trust with abuse and neglect. I owe you my life, Giorno. I will for as long as I'm breathing. You showed respect for my life and in turn I did to yours. I promised not to forget what you did for me, but I lapsed in my promise. Let me correct that mistake, to do that I ask you to trust me."

No answer was said but was still given then the form of the young child latching onto the gangster's neck. Worries of having been forgotten by the one person he felt cared for him had been proven wrong in spades. Now he could leave this cold home devoid of care that he had no attachment to. Overwhelmed with emotion he began to silently cry tears he hadn't know he'd been holding in. Between tears he managed to ask something he'd been longing to know,

"What's your name?"

"Risotto Nero."

Author Notes:

Been a LONG time since I've posted anything on this site. Anyhow, but this AU was inspired by Reversalsun's "Story of Assassins" fic. Risotto Nero is my favorite from part 5, though that is my favorite part so far so I love it in general, so the idea of him being the gangster Giorno saved is amazing to me. If you like La Squadra and want a scenario go check out their story!

I was inspired to make my own take on it, of course taking it in a different direction. So this is kind of a what if Giorno was a part of La Squadra Di Esecuzione? I also took the chance to expand on Risotto's backstory a bit from what was given in the manga. I have ideas for a good chunk of the members and how they'd tie to why they're so loyal to Risotto as I like the thought of him being a Dad to the them, like Bruno is a Mom.

Oh, and the title is a reference to Marilyn Manson's song Children of Cain. Gotta keep with the musical references! Cain is the first murderer in the bible so I felt it fit with the part's religious notes, and La Squadra being hitmen/murderers.