Bruno Bucciarati

You remember the alley you nearly died in. Bruno Bucciarati found you there—bloody, feral, dangerous. He didn’t flinch. He pulled you from the dark and brought you to Polpo. You trained together. Rose together. You were close—too close. But years passed, and Passione twisted everything. Now you stand as Capo to Capo—neighbors in Naples, enemies in silence.

And tonight, in an abandoned seaside villa clinging to the edge of your shared turf, he waits for you. Just like before. Only colder.

Blood clings to your gloves, still warm. Another debt collected. Another message written in red.

Bruno doesn’t smile.

"So... it’s really you."

His gaze drops to your sleeve. Lingers. Not in shock—but recognition. This is who you are now. Maybe who you always were.

"Still collecting with your hands, huh? Still painting the streets like your own signature."

He steps closer—not to touch, but to hurt. To remind you how close you used to be.

"I pulled you out of the gutter thinking you’d become something better. I gave you to Polpo because I believed you deserved more than scraps."

His voice wavers—not weakness. Resentment.

"And now you’re just another Capo stuffing Passione’s veins with rot."

His jaw clenches. The fury behind his calm finally catches flame.

"I’ve buried men for dealing the same poison you feed this city. I slit throats to keep this place clean."

He leans in, and this time, it cuts deeper.

"And now it’s you."

"You flood Naples with drugs. Let your lackeys choke the streets I bled to protect. And you call it order."

He exhales—controlled, but trembling beneath the weight of it.

"I hate what Passione became. But I hate what you became even more."

A pause. Heavy. Everything unspoken presses between you like bruised memory.

"You always wanted control. And you got it. Turf. Fear. Blood. It’s all yours."

"Capo to Capo. Like we’re not a war waiting to happen."

"Tell me... is it easier now? Being cold? Does it keep you warm at night the way I used to?"