Despite Diavolo’s belief that he had control of the situation, Scolippi ultimately met his fate as predicted by “Rolling Stones”—dying by gunfire.
“Fate…”
“Is it truly unchangeable?”
Confronted with these two heavy words, Diavolo foresaw his own death.
No matter what he did, it seemed futile…
We are all just slaves to fate…
Scolippi’s pessimistic words echoed in his mind, unsettling him.
“No!”
“King Crimson is me, Diavolo! That has never changed!”
Diavolo gritted his teeth, his eyes blazing with unquenchable fire:
“What of fate?”
“If fate has decreed that I will die, then I will shatter this damned fate with my own hands!”
At that moment, he couldn’t help but ponder a question:
Why did “Rolling Stones” show his impending death? What could threaten him, the dark emperor undefeated for over a decade?
“Lee Sin.”
Diavolo immediately thought of the bald man who had intruded into his low-key life.
“Scolippi mentioned that ‘Rolling Stones’ sensed our imminent deaths around eight this morning.”
“Eight this morning…”
“That’s when that damned bald guy appeared in my room!”
“Yes… it was then…”
“My fate was altered!”
In that instant, the unfamiliar name ‘Lee Sin’ became a venomous snake coiled around Diavolo’s heart.
Diavolo no longer saw him as a mere disgusting sewer rat or an easily squashed bug—Lee Sin had become his fated nemesis, a nightmare he had to eliminate!
“I can’t be casual anymore.”
“I must use every means, mobilize all available forces, to eliminate this bald man as soon as possible!”
Diavolo resolved.
Previously, he had only deployed his most trusted bodyguards to ambush Lee Sin, concerned about leaking information about his Stand ability.
But now, Diavolo couldn’t afford to worry about that.
He knew he had to take some risks, mobilize all forces in Naples to crush this fated enemy before he could rise.
Of course…
His true identity and Stand ability had to remain secret.
If those gang members heard anything they shouldn’t while dealing with Lee Sin, then…
“Today…” Diavolo’s heterochromatic eyes grew cold: “Many people will die.”
……………………………………………………………………………….
Naples Prison, VIP suite.
Yes…
In this maximum-security prison, there was a well-furnished, fully equipped VIP suite with internet, phone, fridge, TV, fresh food, and 24/7 service (guards).
Living here was Polpo, the gang leader in charge of Naples.
The presence of this obviously non-standard VIP suite hinted at something…
He lived here not because he was caught but because he chose to.
As a significant figure in the gang,
the entire Naples prison, no, the entire city of Naples, was Polpo’s domain. With great power came endless enemies.
Rather than risk living outside, he preferred staying in this heavily guarded prison.
For Polpo, going to prison felt like going home; it felt better than home, with everyone inside being his subordinate, speaking pleasantly…
“Someone!”
“Come here… I have important orders!”
Polpo shook the room’s bell, summoning a guard like a hotel service:
Soon, a well-dressed, serious-looking female guard entered:
“Mr. Polpo?”
“Do you have any orders?”
She looked like a righteous officer but called Polpo, a criminal, her boss.
Polpo didn’t waste time.
This giant man, standing at two and a half meters tall and as obese as a bear fattened for hibernation, slowly rose from his luxurious sofa.
He looked down at the female guard:
“First, open the gate and prepare the car. The boss has given orders, and I must go personally.”
“Second, notify all gang members in Naples, especially those street informants:
use any means necessary to search the city for a bald Eastern man named ‘Lee Sin.'”
“Third…”
Polpo paused, emphasizing:
“Notify Bucciarati’s squad and tell them the organization needs their strength now.”
……………………………………………………………………………….
Naples, a seemingly ordinary cafe.
This was Bucciarati’s squad’s base.
Bucciarati’s squad, composed entirely of Stand users, was responsible for maintaining Naples’ underground order and handling dirty work.
Though called a squad…
There were only three members, and they were mostly underage:
Bruno Bucciarati, 18.
Pannacotta Fugo, 14.
Narancia Ghirga, 15.
Despite their youth, their strength, as Polpo’s most trusted combat force, was unquestionable.
However, they needed more members.
Their leader, Bucciarati, was always looking for suitable Stand users to strengthen his team.
Today, a new member was joining:
“Leone Abbacchio, 19…”
“Used to be a policeman?”
“Hey, leaving a good job to join the mob? Undercover?”
Fugo, with his short temper, was the first to question Abbacchio after his self-introduction.
Bucciarati was outside, taking a call from the boss.
The responsibility of “introducing” the newcomer naturally fell to Fugo, the second oldest member, though only 14.
“19?”
“Older than Bucciarati… and four years older than me!”
Fugo muttered, glancing at Narancia counting the age difference on his fingers.
Narancia wasn’t even looking at the newcomer.
“A newbie hazing?”
“Pathetic…”
Abbacchio sneered slightly, then calmly answered Fugo:
“I explained everything to Bucciarati before joining.”
“Yes, I was a cop, left for certain reasons, and now I’m a mobster.”
“As for being undercover?”
“Heh…”
He shrugged, smiling:
“When I was a cop, I knew this country, Italy, was rotten to the core.”
“The ‘police force’ is just a branch of your mafia.”
“Who would I be undercover for?”
“Hahaha.”
Hearing this, Fugo quickly dropped his hostility and laughed:
“Just joking, a little joke.”
“You’re new, we gotta take care of you!”
“Come!”
“Drink this tea; we’re all friends here!”
Fugo stood, amicably pouring Abbacchio a steaming cup of tea.
Then…
He scraped a clump of dirt from his shoe, mixed it into the tea with his finger.
“Come on!”
“Abbacchio, drink up!”
Fugo, smiling, pushed the muddy tea toward Abbacchio.
“Child’s play.”
“Every organization has its ways of welcoming newcomers. Compared to the police, you mafiosi are still green.”
Abbacchio’s disdain was evident.
He casually grabbed the muddy tea, drank it without flinching.
“No way…”
“He really drank it?”
Fugo and Narancia were stunned.
“A tough guy.”
“With him here, future newcomers will have it hard.”
Seeing Abbacchio’s seasoned handling of the “welcome,” they couldn’t help but worry for future recruits.
Bucciarati returned from his call.
At 18, he spoke with a maturity and warmth that belied his age:
“Abbacchio.”
“How’s the bonding with Fugo and Narancia?”
“Good.”
Abbacchio said nonchalantly: “These ‘young’ seniors are quite hospitable.”
“Great…”
Bucciarati eyed Fugo and Narancia’s guilty faces, but said nothing:
“Now that everyone is acquainted, let’s get to business!”
“This is sudden, but…”
“Abbacchio.”
He glanced at the newcomer: “Your first task as a mobster is here.”
“Oh?”
Abbacchio asked with interest: “What is it?”
Bucciarati took a deep breath, then answered slowly: “Murder.”
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