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Capo Mista, or "Just Mista" as he insists on being called, is a close friend of the Enigmatic Don Giorno Giovanna and his right hand Pannacotta Fugo (that rumors say gives the Don his right hand from time to time too). Despite the accolades, the terrifying reputation that the gun-toting mercenary wears like second skin, Mista’s plucky team keeps catching him being silly-- bopping to Italian pop star Trish Una.
They don’t question it— the spicy young popstar’s songs are catchy. What really got the team’s jaws dropping was that Miss Una was also a Passione agent. Being invited to parties upon parties means she has intel on nasty activities the elite partake in, so to speak. However, even with that being explained to them by their capo, the team still couldn’t believe that pop star Trish Una was standing before them in person to hand off deliverables for Don Giovanna. Their capo looks giddy, his happiness can’t be hidden even if he tried.
She was an active member for a bit until she had to go hold her tour around most of Northern Europe. But now that she’s back and taking a break, she’ll be happy to pick up jobs for Passione, for the good of the people. Mista hasn’t stop smiling since they’ve arrived.
Meeting up with agents only used up about 2 minutes, but mista wouldn’t stop chatting her up. It would be too rude to interrupt them, so the team lets them be. However, they don’t miss the way their capo deflates when Trish insists they must part ways. Their hug lingers, as the gangsters note.
Where did you meet?”
“What’s she really like?”
“Can you get me an autograph, sir?”
Were some of the questions that the team tried to prod their capo with. Mista was incredibly smug, going off about how they were practically best friends
“Are you two together?”
Their capo goes quiet. He becomes pink in the ears. He snorts and complains what a handful Trish Una is, but says nothing more. The others give each other a look and drop the topic.
But only for a few days, “Who do you keep texting, capo?”
Mista pulls his phone under the table, schooling his features. However, his Sex Pistols keep bouncing about, clearly enthralled.
“Nothing. No one. Just checking up on people.”
All the gangsters in that pizzeria took a long sip of their mulled wine in silence.
When they stand up to leave, Rosetta exclaims a surprised “Oh!”. They all look to her as she compliments her capo on the lovely cologne he’s wearing. But her smile falters.
When did their capo ever smell like anything except wet dog?
(“He doesn’t even own a dog!” Pesto once said)
They meet up at the regular place, a dive bar they protect from some local thugs.
Their last member comes bounding in, “We thought someone might have got the jump on you.”
“I’m too tough for that, capo. But hey look at this!” He pulls up a copy of Italian Swim. “Your friend Trish is the centerfold for Italian Swim this month!”. Mista misses his billiards shot completely. The cue ball pops over the pool table and hits his right hand man, Calzone, square in the face.
Their capo, face flushed, has this wild look in his eyes. He snatches the magazine away.
“A-And? You know, we were really worried about you. We have a new mission to get on. A real crackdown. All hands on deck!”
“Y-Yes, sir...!”
Affogato, that member, doesn’t miss the way his capo rolls up the magazine and stuffs it in his back pocket “Capo-!”
Affogato’s fellow member holds his shoulder back. Pesto looks at him, forlorn,
“You wouldn’t want that magazine back if I were you.”
During their pit stop on the drive towards the location, Calzone snags a second copy of that month’s Italian Swim. Affogato and him huddle in the van as their capo is in the bathroom. They awe at the pop star’s phenomenal rack and bright eyes.
They especially take note of Red Criss-cross pattern of her bikini.
Calzone snickers and says it reminds of a certain someone. Before he can elaborate to a clueless Affogato, a warning shot is fired a few inches from his toes.
Mista, having come back from the restroom, stares daggers from outside the van. The two cower, but don’t miss how their capo is holding on to a copy of Italian Swim himself. And they only WISH they did not notice how Mista’s pants were all wrinkled and he was clearly out of breath.
The mission was grueling, but they were all alive which was pretty great actually. Affogato’s leg is all fucked up, but he’ll be back to 100% in not long. The beauty of their capo being a great friend of Don Giovanna is the effective healing powers. And yet, with how sour their capo’s mood is, they all sort of wish they had an excuse to not show up to work.
He’s pissed all the time.
Irritable.
Number 3 actually bit Calzone’s finger when he was about to snag a cut of salami.
It wasn’t difficult to figure out why Mista was this way.
They had all seen the tabloid cover in every convenience store window and in every street vendor’s hands. They had all panicked upon reading the gaudy headline text: “POP STAR TRISH UNA AND ACTOR DANIEL ROSSI: IN LOVE??” with a blurry photo of her in the lap of said actor.
It was only 5 days in when they had had enough. Their capo was despondent, drinking room temperature wine straight from bottle.
“We need to do something.”
“We’d be overstepping our boundaries.” Calzone says, as the four conspire behind their capo’s back.
“We can’t work like this, so this impacts performance .” Pesto points outs. “Therefore... it’s Passione business.”
The bell above the door rings
Don Giovanna’s right hand man, Fugo puts his coat on the rack of the dive bar. “Hello, everyone. You said this was an emergency? Where’s your capo?”
All members, stupefied at the sight of the high-ranking official, glare at Pesto who only shrugs and gets up to greet Fugo.
They have heard horror stories of the man’s temper and had all expected Fugo to rip their heads off for getting him involved in something so trivial And yet, after being briefed on the situation, Fugo only gawks and rolls his eyes so hard he might have glanced at his own brain.
“I’ll get Giogio to talk to him. I knew that that stupid headline would get to him but I didn’t think it’d be this bad.” He pauses, “Does he still believe that Trish has a boyfriend until now? Like, Mista didn’t talk to her?”
The team’s shocked faces was his answer.
It hurts but it might hurt more if he stopped listening to her sweet voice over the speakers. Mista felt close like this somehow, listening to her in this way. The CD hadn’t left the player since he popped it in their, excited on the eve of her debut day. There’s a knock on the door but he only sneers at it. He pops another Hershey kiss into his mouth.
He knows his team knows, but he doesn’t care, okay? He’s so fucking pathetic, thinking that he and Trish could ever be like that when it was obvious she had every man in Italy for her choosing. And why would he choose him? He looks down at his signed Trish Una Indivisible Tour T-Shirt and groans.
The knocks go harder. When it starts to sound in beats of 4, Mista stomps over to give his subordinates a piece of his mind for stopping so low,
“Mista.”
Trish Una pulls down her sunglasses to look at him; to look at the crumbs all over his face and at his unironed boxers. “...What happened to you?!”
She reaches up to fix his hat properly on his head. Mista is frozen in time.
“What- You- Who...?”
Trish sidesteps and invites herself in to his studio apartment. “Bachelor pad” he calls it, but Rosetta calls it “Bachelor sad”. The Sex Pistols were mulling about the mountain of unfinished junk food, but, at the sight of Trish, they all trip each other to race to her.
“TRISH!”
"TRISH YOU’RE HERE”
“TRISH WE MISSED YOU”
“TRISH DO YOU HAVE ANY REAL FOOD ON YOU”
“WE MISSED YOU”
“TRISH LOOK HERE”
She can’t help her chuckle. “I missed you all too.” She coos. “If only your daddy would answer my texts.” Trish throws a pointed look to Mista. He gulps.
“I’ve been... relaxing.” He tried to maintain some dignity, despite literally being caught with his pants down. Trish looks unimpressed.
“Giorno mentioned you weren’t feeling well, but I didn’t think it was... like this.”
“Giorno shouldn’t be bossing you around to do shit like this!” He flushes, embarrassed. He wonders which of his traitorous subordinates snitched.
Definitely Pesto.
“Giorno didn’t ask me to do anything.” She clears up the table, “I came here because I care about you.” The honestly in her voice catches him off-guard. Mista almost swoons, but his bitterness creeps up,
“You shouldn’t be saying stuff like that so casually. People might get the wrong idea.”
Trish isn’t stupid, Mista knows, but she presses on for reasons he doesn't understand, “And what’s so bad about that?”
“With a boyfriend and everything, you shouldn’t let your mouth run!” Mista feels hysterical, having to say that to her of all people. Was she toying with him? How much more suffering could he possibly take? His stomach drops.
Trish snorts but tries to cover it up “You saw that? Fucking paparazzi...!” She curses, albeit with a laugh, “Always blowing things out of proportion.”
A sliver. Just a crest of hope.
“Is it... not true...?” He holds with bated breath Trish pops a Hershey kiss in her mouth and only shakes her head. "Danny (Mista cringes at the nickname) was just there when I tripped on my skirt. We had a real laugh about it, but I guess it does look pretty bad in the moment. I mean, it got you believing, didn't it?" She laughed aloud.
“You...! You never told me!” He shouts, livid, as this is no laughing matter! Mista's embarrassed and a little mortified, but most of all, incredibly happy for reasons he will not unpack here and now.
“Someone never asked.” Trish sneers, “Like how someone never texted me back.” She tacks on to the end of her sentence. Mista remembers how me just let his flip phone die somewhere. Who knows where it could be in all this mess.
“Mista... tell me what’s wrong.”
Mista feels like he’s 14 again, young and acne-ridden, caught looking at a dirty magazine. Ashamed. “I... don’t want to.”
“Mista.”
He throws his hands up in the air, useless to her wiles, “It was weird, okay! That you... and I wasn’t...”
The corner of Trish’s mouth twitches. “Relationships aren’t a race. Were you jealous when you thought I got into one first?”
“NO!” He bounds up to her and shakes her shoulder. Catching himself, he let her go. She looks at him, so visibly concerned.
Perhaps it's the mulled wine or the way Trish is looking up at him with her big eyes. Perhaps it's the captivated audience comprised of six miniature stands that have taken to sitting on the counter and observing the pair.
Regardless of the reason, in his boxers and a Trish Una Indivisible Tour T-Shirt, Mista confesses.
“You silly woman...! I liked you this whole time! There! I said it! I’m mad at myself that I was mad you were- I thought you were- smooching some figlio de puttana and not....!” Mista looks away, breathless all of a sudden, “Not me.”
It feels like hours before the silence is broken. He can’t hear the Sex Pistols either; all the energy he mustered to confess must have called them away. But Trish, her bright eyes begin to sparkle.
She snorts.
Mista stands there while Trish laughs herself into a coma.
To her credit, she tries to reign herself in long enough to cut to the feeling, “Cazzo! Why didn’t you say so? I thought for sure I'd have to wait around forever for you."
Trish smacks him lightly on the chest, “You should have just said it! Is that what this is all about? Has my little rumor bested you, Mista?” Although her words are sharp, Trish is flushed from head to toe, giddy and breathless Mista awes at it. The word 'forever' hangs over their heads, inciting action, not unlike mistletoe in the dead of June.
“I-It’s... because it’s you. I like you a lot.”
Trish gestures to the player next to his bed where her sixth track from Indivisible plays. “I can see that now.” Mista hides his face.
“I like you a lot too, stinky. When’s the last time you showered? I'm not gonna lie, this is killing the mood.” Mista hides his face harder, but Trish can see his wobbly smile nonetheless.