Chapter 015: Human Slices (This chapter has been revised)
When Risotto was still a small child, his parents died in a car accident.
To get the small amount of compensation from the driver, his relatives all vied to raise him, as if it were the gears of fate, where every gap needed to be filled.
Many years later, fate is hard to predict; every choice you make will come with a price. Sometimes Risotto would wonder, if I had chosen another path, the path most people take, what beauty would life hold?
But that would be terrible; he probably wouldn't have met a better cousin than Bidari Niero (later renamed).
At that time, his paternal uncle was a vile scoundrel, and his aunt was bedridden, nightmares entwining this family. Risotto arrived at this family during a particularly hot summer in Sicily.
Under the dilapidated eaves, amidst the quarreling uncle and aunt, and in the hot, murky air, two brothers who stole money from their parents to buy ice water would smile and chat. In the sometimes 40-degree heat, his cousin always fanned him and told him beautiful legends about Sicily, soothing the wounds of losing his parents.
"Risotto, don't be sad, otherwise your parents won't be able to ascend to heaven because they can't bear to leave you."
When Risotto returned to Sicily, he received a call from a relief station in America: his best cousin, his only relative, had passed away forever.
The cause of death was a strange explosion, and not even a complete body could be found.
He immediately flew to America, this person who, because his younger cousin had forever descended into the abyss of the mafia, couldn't even return to his hometown.
It was raining the day he arrived. Amidst the noisy rain and his sorrowful heart, he stood alone before the tombstone. Unlike Sicily, the Weather in California is always mild, sometimes with continuous overcast and rain.
He clenched his fist, once again feeling the urge to avenge his cousin's son from many years ago. He went to the site of the explosion.
It must be said, the SPW Foundation's cover-up was very good, but it was clearly a Stand attack.
A Stand battle had dragged ordinary people, who couldn't even see Stands, into it.
At this moment, the people at the relief station asked him if he was willing to take in Johnson Joffrey, his cousin's only adopted son.
He was a gloomy child; when Risotto saw Johnson, although he always acted like a small child, this couldn't hide the charm emanating from his body.
Risotto had walked between life and death for a long time, leaping back and forth between shadow and darkness, light and brightness.
This child was not a simple person.
—
The evening winds of Naples were always gentle, without a hint of fishiness as they brushed against one's face. The tranquil Tyrrhenian Sea harbor and the temporarily dormant Mount Vesuvius, the poor alleys and the golden halls—this was Italy's most prosperous yet impoverished city in the south, and also the Eden of the mafia.
"I found you the best language school." Risotto pointed at every word in the headache-inducing document, afraid of missing any important terms of the school.
Johnson didn't answer him; instead, he asked, "What does Uncle do for work?"
Risotto looked up at him, not wanting to give the child too unstable a life.
"Transportation."
Specializing in sending people to heaven?
Johnson turned his head to the side, looking at the bustling street outside the apartment. He had no particular feelings for the Assassination Team; compared to them, he was more curious about Giorno Giovanna. Even at the airport, he hadn't encountered this old driver of illegal taxis, despite Stand Users being attracted to each other.
However, he might still be very young now and hasn't realized what a huge business opportunity driving illegal taxis at the airport is.
"Ding-dong—"
"Johnson, please open the door."
It was the delivery person.
"Is this Mr. Risotto Nero's house?" The delivery person lazily looked at the name stuck on the express box, "Please sign for it; payment on delivery."
"Oh," Johnson nodded, looking at the box, which resembled five square LCD screens—though LCD screens hadn't been invented yet in this era.
"That will be 1273 lira."
These were probably his things from when he was in America, entrusted to a moving company to send over. Speaking of which, the logistics here in Italy are really fast, almost catching up to SF Express, just a bit expensive. But then again, these were sent from America and were so heavy.
The five boxes were a bit heavy. He carried them all the way to the entrance garden, grabbed a knife from the kitchen, and started unpacking the delivery.
Risotto heard the sound and frowned slightly, having an ominous premonition. But then he remembered that this house in Naples was specifically purchased for Johnson to live in, and even his own team members didn't know its exact location.
As the leader of the Assassination Team, he had made many enemies, and he dared not carelessly open external deliveries.
Just as he was about to go and warn Johnson, he received a call from Prosciutto.
Prosciutto's voice, distorted by the electronic effect, became somewhat unfamiliar. His normally calm tone now carried a few hints of confusion.
"I heard you're arranging your nephew's life. We're currently at our base in Naples, and all members have received strange deliveries, but they haven't been opened yet. Are you coming over?"
Risotto's hand, gripping the phone, trembled slightly. Before answering, he first called out—
"Johnson, don't open the delivery!"
He threw the phone aside and ran to the entrance garden, where he saw Johnson deep in thought, staring at five severed human heads preserved in formaldehyde.
Johnson sat on a shoebox, his hands crossed and resting on his mouth, his brows furrowed, staring intently at these human slices, much like Rodin's "The Thinker."
Risotto first glanced at the silent Johnson, then at the five human tissue slices soaking in green liquid, perfectly preserved without any bloodstains.
His eyes showed an almost ferocious look, his eyeballs practically bulging out, as if they were cut alive.
The cut surfaces of the slices were complete, conforming to the most rigorous slicing methods; one could seemingly see clear blood vessels between the cross-sections, and even the brain hadn't spilled out, maintaining its original shape.
The craftsmanship could be described as exquisite.
Even Risotto couldn't help but be shocked; the five human tissue slices came from different parts of the body and couldn't be reassembled into a complete human form.
An enemy? Or someone else? Why do they know about this property of mine in Naples? Has my every move been monitored by him?
"Uncle, you're a gangster, aren't you?" Johnson looked up and quietly asked Risotto.
Rarely, Risotto, who kills like a machine, didn't know how to explain himself to Johnson.
Johnson himself was also confused; his original plan was to study italian, research his Stand, and continue pretending to be a child.
But he never expected that even opening a package would lead to trouble.
Johnson couldn't help but fall into thought: upon seeing five human tissue slices, how should a child my age react?
"You're also a Stand User, right?" Johnson asked seriously.
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