Abbacchio was dead.

Body leaning on the large rocks behind him, a hole through his heart, blood surrounding his frame. He was dead, life and shine was not longer on his purple eyes, his skin was cold and pale. He was no longer here.

Bucciarati was stepping away, his lower lip bleeding to hold back possible tears. You, Mista and Giorno could only watch the anguish of the young teenager, the desperate pleas to return the man back, the sadness seeping through the words to his tongue.

You have been with them for a long time, and even with the shock, you spotted the hint left behind nearby. You wouldn't speak up, not yet, you were feeling the same as Ghirga, the feeling filling your mind, just like his own.

When noticing there was no answer, and they didn't had a choice anymore, Narancia's tears finally streamed his cheeks, the sorrow consuming his figure. Turning back to the capo, in a loud voice, he exclaimed.

"ARE WE JUST GOING TO LEAVE HIM HERE, BUCCIARATI?! Are we just going to leave Abbacchio all alone?! I DON'T WANT TO LEAVE HIM BEHIND!"