Genre: drama
Comments: I apologize for how much it jumps around... I'm kinda writing it in pieces... I've been meaning to piece it together, but this is what's been put together as of now... and don't read beyond the large break, unless you want the ending to be spoiled for you... It just wanted to get it out, and it's on the document I'm pasing this from...




one

I

For the first time in his life, he was truly scared. He found himself at a bit of a dilemma, not wanting to proceed with what needed to be done. He hated himself for it. There had to be another way. The pain and fear of the night to come ate at him, gnawing at his mind.

The rain that fell from the heavy, black sky was somehow soothing. Almost like the rains from the heavens above were part of some holy baptism, cleansing him of all his wrong doings, only to be replaced this very night. Hidden by the drenching onslaught, a rogue tear rolled unnoticed down his cheek. But things wouldn’t get any better if he just stood outside all night. It needed to be done. He engaged himself in a brief meditation, to calm his nerves, and walked up the stairs to the front door. It was locked, but it wouldn’t stop him. The key still hung on his oversized key chain, allowing his entry into the foreboding manor.

All was quiet, but he knew where to go. Upstairs, where the only light shone, was where he needed to go. He proceeded up the stairs, still not sure if he was ready. He could hear his heart pounding in his chest, like a set of African drums. It was his only company as he slowly climbed the long flight of stairs. Only once before had this climb seemed as long. And now, it was time to close it all off.

He reached the landing, and paused for a brief moment. He dried his face with his hands, feeling the sick heat that radiated from his cheeks. But it needed to be done. No knocking, not any more. He just opened the large oak door, and stepped inside the dimly lit office.

He sat behind the desk, as though he was waiting for something. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see him. He only leaned back in his chair, and folded his hands on his desk. But he could see beyond his act. In his eyes, he could see the fear that had built up inside of him. The thing for which he had been waiting all night had finally come, and in its worst form. They just stayed there, motionless, staring into one another’s eyes, both knowing that this was where it was all to end. One betrayal to avenge another. And they both knew it.

A tear had managed to free itself from his grip, escaping down his cheek. He barely noticed. But the other did. It almost seemed to have touched him, somewhere deep, that neither even knew existed. But like the bolt of the heavens that strikes with out warning, a single gunshot had ended it all…

II

For years, the two main powers of the Eastern Seaboard had been at war. It had always been the Capellis in charge of everything, and that was the way they liked it. But in the mid eighties, new blood entered their turf. The Romanovs upset the delicate balance from the start. They were unable to just shunt the Capellis to the side, so they went to the next level. Juaquim Capelli, oldest son of Luciano Capelli was assassinated on his way out of Church on a Sunday morning. A direct declaration of war in the eyes of the Capelli family. For over twenty years, the two families fought. In the late nineties, Luciano was killed by a Romanov bullet, leaving his only son, Francis, in charge. It wasn't long before the Romanovs knew about Francis' pride and joy. A way to get deep into the family, and destroy it from within. Francis had a 26 year old daughter. And by removing her from the picture, Francis was quite likely to lose his head. It was simple.

And it was done. A private hire for the family was sent to first study Leigh; learn her habits. It wasn't long before the sweet, innocent image of the prized daughter of Francis Capelli was tainted. She was a regular at the club scene. She associated with some not-so-clean guys. Even on occasion, she'd do drugs. Nothing too heavy, just the occasional high. Only two people knew about what was going down; the private hire, and the youngest son of Yuri Romanov. It happened with out any warning. Leigh went out with a few friends one Friday night, and she never came home. It wasn't uncommon for her to be gone several days at a time. She was 26 years old. But about the middle of the week, Francis began to worry. He had a few people out on the streets, but nothing turned up. Then, Friday afternoon, Francis received a phone call. A few seconds of Leigh screaming, then silence. Francis slowly put the phone back in its cradle. The thought of his little girl, scared and all alone, made him a wild mix of emotions. Who ever was responsible was going to pay. And oh how dearly. He reached for the bottle of gin in his desk and tried to open it. His hands shook so much and so violently, that more of the amber liquid found itself on the desk than in the bottle. He brought the bottle to his lips, thinking it would calm the fear. He drank the entire contents of the bottle, then tossed it to the floor. There was another bottle somewhere in the office. Francis started to get up to look for it, but he was stopped. The phone was once again ringing. Still in his half-standing stance, Francis reached for the phone.

"What?" he demanded.

"Listen, you don't give the orders," a man's voice snapped. "I do."

Francis sat back down. "What do you want?" he asked. "I don't care how much money. Just give me back my daughter."

"You are in no position to make bargains, Mr. Capelli," the man said. He sounded well rehearsed, as though he knew exactly what Francis was going to say next. "Two million in plain, black gym bags," he said. "I'll call later about the drop off."

Francis began to argue, but the connection had been lost. He had hung up.


Dimitri's suspicions had been right. Francis had lost all control. Word on the street was that he'd offered a reward for the return of Leigh double that of the ransom. All of his attention diverted, he'd retreated to his office on the second floor, rarely leaving the false safety it presented. He soon found himself at the bottom of too many bottles. The fear consumed him, and the booze only fed the fear. He couldn't leave the house, because he knew that if he did, he'd miss that one call, that one opportunity, that one last chance. He stopped leaving his office, because he knew that he might not get to a phone in time, and he'd miss than chance. That drove him crazy inside. Just knowing how helpless he was in the matter, despite the fact that he held more power than anyone in the large city. All his life consisted of was drinking himself to a state of unconsciousness while locked away in his little cave of an office. His cheeks were beginning to appear permanently stained with the salty rivulets of constant tears. He was going prematurely gray, and his health was beginning to slide. Something had to be done.

III

Word that Francis Capelli's daughter traveled far and fast. Every private hire from Portland to Miami were after the reward. It didn't take long before members of the Romanov family began to turn up missing. Two months into the ordeal, and Leigh was yet to be found. The only thing accomplished was the Romanovs were slowly losing power. They were getting scared; backed into a corner. Eventually, the kidnapping was traced back to Dimitri. Two days after he fled, Francis received another phone call. He answered it, only to be greeted by several gun shots. The bottle in his hand slowly dropped to the floor, shattering into hundreds of lethal shards. He slowly rose from the lounger behind his desk, but didn't say anything.

"Daddy?" Leigh asked after a few seconds. She didn't sound like herself. She was obviously scared out of her mind, and on the verge of tears.

"Leigh, honey?" Francis asked. He sighed a deep breath of relief. But it was still far from over. "Are you alright? What's going on?"

Leigh waited a few seconds to answer. She was holding back tears that were far too stubborn. "Daddy," she said meekly, "I wanna come home."

"I-- I know--" There was another gunshot close to the phone, followed by a short, yet shrill scream, and a crashing sound. He could still hear Leigh in the background, but Francis wasn't sure if she had been hurt. Thoughts, horrible thoughts, began to race through Francis' head. He tried to block them out, but all he could think of was his daughter, hurt in some warehouse somewhere. Leigh picked the phone back up.

"Daddy," she said. She had begun to cry. "I'm coming home. Tonight."

Francis almost passed out. He sat back down in his seat, but he still wasn't at all at ease. "No. Don't hang up," he said. "Don't."

"I'll be home in a little bit," she said. "I love you, Daddy."

Hearing that made him feel better some how. "I love you too," he said. "Hurry home." He opened the drawers to his desk, hoping to find another bottle of something to replace the one he had dropped.

"I will, Daddy."

She cut the connection. Francis still held the phone. He didn't know what to do. A heavy weight had been lifted, but not all of it. He could still feel something, somewhere inside him. Was this for real? Was she really coming home? Was it just some sort of a trick? He finally hung up the phone, and for the first time in months, he left his office, and wandered down the stairs, to the front room. A few days' worth of dishes had been stacked up through out the front room and the kitchen. Several pairs of black trousers were thrown on the floor against the walls, along with about twenty dirty socks. But one thing stood out from all else; the dingy white coffee pot that sat unplugged on the kitchen counter. It would probably be beneficial to be sober when Leigh came home.

Francis sat in his easy chair in the front room, working on his fourth cup of coffee, when the sound of car tires over wet pavement rose up over the pouring rain. The engine cut out, but not before backfiring. Francis cringed, at first thinking it was a gunshot. After realizing how stupid he seemed, he stepped out on the porch. Leigh jumped out of an old Charger, and ran up to Francis. The short amount of time in the rain had already made her hair flat, and her shirt somewhat translucent. Her and Francis embraced, both crying long and hard into each other’s shoulders. Francis had told himself that he wouldn't cry, but he never listened to anyone before. He tenderly stroked Leigh's hair, and kissed her on the forehead.


Blood flowed from his shoulder like thick, red ink. The pouring rain only spread the mess, staining his shirt and jacket, without hope of ever being able to wash it out. He just stood in the pouring rain, waiting. Waiting for someone to realize that he was still standing next to the Charger, quite injured, and in need of some sort of medical attention. He was quite tempted to just get back in his car, and drive to that quack of a doctor, but no telling what would happen then.

He didn't seem like much of a professional anything. His jacket was far too big, his clothes were mangled and dingy from wearing them for days on end, and his hair, wet and greasy from the rain, had plastered itself on his face, reaching his cheeks. He didn't like just standing around, waiting for something to happen, but this wasn't his show. The best way to reach the top would be to wait for Francis to be ready. It wasn't the reward Jack was after, but rather the chance to work for the big guy. He'd finally be on top-- if the cards fell right. But he couldn't just wait out in the rain for ever. His shoulder was likely to kill him if he didn't do something about it soon. He didn't go to that damn doctor like he should have. He had to drive Leigh straight home. And driving stick wasn't an easy task with a bullet in the shoulder.

Jack watched the display on the porch for what seemed like an hour. Maybe it was just the driving pain in his shoulder that made it seem like an hour; he didn't know. All he could do was wish for them to get over and done with it. He was beginning to feel light headed, and sick to his stomach all at once. He leaned against the Charger to avoid falling over.

Leigh took a step back from Francis, then pointed out toward the Charger. She was saying something, but Jack wasn't sure what. Francis followed the direction she pointed in, then nodded. He looked concerned about something. He opened the front door as Leigh ran down the stairs, and out to the Charger. She took Jack by the hands, and pulled him back on his feet.

"Daddy wants you to come inside," she said.

Jack nodded but didn't say anything. He tried to walk on his own, but his head felt too swimmy, and he almost fell over. He hated himself. He was supposed to be some great hero, and now, here he was, barely able to stand on his own. With Leigh's help, he'd managed to make in up the stairs to the patio, and inside.

IV

They sat in the basement, each only watching the movements of the other. It was about this time that Jack had begun to regret declining the vodka. The pain ate at everything on his left from his neck to his waist. He was sure the throbbing in his head was from something else entirely. Maybe the loss of blood; maybe the fall he had taken in that warehouse. The whole damn operation had been fucked up, and he still couldn’t figure out the hows or whys of it.

Finally, the third party had come stumbling down the stairs. Once he’d reached the landing, he shuffled his way to Jack, and sat a large leather bag on the pool table. His tools were dripping in vodka, and so was he. Maybe having a slug in his shoulder forever wouldn’t be so bad. Either way, he’d probably lose his arm anyway.

Francis stood in the corner, and watched. The hanging overhead lamp cast shadows across the room, making it difficult to make out exactly what was going through Jack’s mind. Jack was having a similar problem with Francis. The absolute last thing he needed was to find himself in a position where he needed to defend himself with no weapons, and bleeding all over the place. For now, he just had to assume that Francis was on his side; and he damn well best have been. Jack had nearly died to bring back his daughter. To act against him now would be a huge violation of code and ethics, and all that other shit Jack never took the time to care about.

The would-be doctor gave no warning of his intent. He just leaned Jack back, and jabbed a pair of tweezers into his shoulder. The pain and the metallic cold of the tweezers in his shoulder both fought for the title of the worst part. It wasn’t even that the doctor was fishing around for the bullet. He had gotten it out as quickly as he’d went it; it was more of the randomness of the movement. Over the din that had filled Jack’s ears, he could hear the doctor cleaning his tweezers behind him. Shortly after, the doctor had come back to finish the job. He cleaned the area much more gently than his actions before, and stitched up the soggy mess the bullet had left behind. He wrapped Jack shoulder in gauze, cleaned the rest of his tools, and shuffled back to the stairs.

Jack finally looked up, but to see a new face in the room, replacing Francis. It was his oldest son, Vincent, standing in the same place Francis had stood, in nothing more than a blue silk bathrobe, and a pair of socks. His image was everything personified in those horrible TV mafia dramas the networks had played. His greased back hair made his face look like it more belonged on a rat. There was no doubt what was going through his mind; the strange shadows cast by the light couldn’t hide his expression. Jack could see in Vincent’s eyes that he’d rather have Jack dead. Jack was hoping he wasn’t as smart as he’d put on to be right now. Maybe he was just trying to be tough. Jack doubted it.

Francis walked back down the stairs, holding something in his hand. Vincent shot his attention to his father, and dropped his arms to his sides.

“Dad,” he said, or rather whined, through his teeth. “That’s mine.”

Once he’d stepped into the light, Jack could see what Vincent was talking about. In Francis’ hand, there was a beautiful burgundy silk shirt, which he tossed to Jack.

“You can’t give that to him,” Vincent protested. Francis turned to his son, and made like he wanted to back hand him.

“Shut the fuck up and get upstairs,” Francis snarled.

Vincent stood his ground for a few seconds, then made his way toward the stairs. He didn’t seem defeated in the way he walked, but the glance he threw back at his father as he got to the stairs said all it needed to. “Ungrateful little cunt,” Francis mumbled under his breath.

V

Jack finished buttoning the shirt as he walked up the stairs after Francis. He seemed more tired than anything, but he knew why. He really didn’t care much for Francis’ babblings about his son. He just wanted to get the hell out of there. Go back home and sleep for a week. But it soon became apparent that Francis wasn’t leading him to the front door. Instead, they walked toward the back of the over-sized house, to a rather open sitting room. Vincent was too busy taking over the couch to notice the two of them walking in. He seemed a bit too preoccupied for Jack’s liking, but it soon became obvious that Francis was far too used to his odd son’s behavior. Following Francis’ lead, Jack took a seat in one of the large lounger chairs in the corner. It sunk in a little too much, but Jack was in no position to complain. He just sat and took in his surroundings as he waiting for one of the other two to say something. Judging from the distant, glazed over look on Vincent’s face, it wouldn’t come from him.

“So,” Francis finally said, jarring Jack out of a near sleep. “Mister, uhh…”

Jack looked up, slightly dazed. “Oh,” he said, trying to catch up with what had been said. “Jack.”

“So, Jack,” Francis began. He leaned back into the armchair. “How
exactly did you manage to get yourself involved in,” he took a moment to think; to choose the right words. “In such affairs.”

“Every informant on the coastline had some sort of news about it,” Jack said, trying to sound like he knew a thing or three. He was hoping Francis wasn’t as smart as he should have been. But hoping never really got anyone too far. “I guess I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.” It didn’t sound as smooth as he would have liked it to have had.

Francis nodded, taking in all in. “I see,” he said. “So I suppose you’ve heard of the offer I’d put out?”

“Offer?” he asked. He’d heard of it, but like every thing else, it sounded like a rumor. Maybe he could use this.

“Yes. The offer,” Francis tried to clarify. Jack had no idea what to say. He only tried to pretend to follow. “Jesus Christ,” Francis said after a moment. Jack thought for sure now that he’d caught the trail. “You poor boy. You’ve been shot, and you probably haven’t slept in days. No wonder you’re looking at me like I’m an idiot.”

You don’t even know the half of it, Jack thought. He let out a weak chuckle.

“You know what,” Francis said as he stood up. “Forget the offer.” Jack’s heart sank. “You just risked your life for my daughter; hell, for my entire family, and I’m expecting to just give you a check, and send you on your way?” Jack sat up, pretending to be interested. “I’ve got a better idea.” Francis walked over to Jack, and pulled him to his feet. He didn’t want to stand, and he tried to make it obvious. “Ya know, those guys I had working for me were just dead weight. And obviously, they didn’t do their job.” Jack tried to figure out what he was talking about. Something about Leigh, no doubt. “I’m pretty sure you could do a much better job.” Francis took Jack’s hand, and gripped it firmly. Fuck the offer. If this was what he’d thought it was, he’d be working for the big guy with out much work at all. “You just take better care of her, or I’ll put you in a body bag myself.”

Jack nodded weakly. Something about it was too easy. Maybe Francis was just a lot dumber than he looked. He’d have to be.

“Thank you,” Jack said finally. It sounded real lame, but nothing else came to mind.

“Just do me a favour, and go home for a few days,” Francis said. “Clean up, get some rest.” Jack nodded. Francis gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder, and walked out of the room.

Jack stood in the center of the room, still in awe over what had just happened. But he didn’t get to enjoy it for very long. Vincent had found his feet, and soon found his way into Jack’s face. He was slightly taller than Jack, but that wasn’t saying much. The greasy smell of the pomade in Vincent’s hair made Jack want to choke.

“I don’t know what you’re up to,” Vincent said, “but I’ll find out. No one could have pulled that off so easily.” He staggered back slightly.

Jack shook his head. “Ya know,” he started. He lifted a finger to Vincent’s face. “It’s real hard to be intimidating—“ he quickly rubbed it under Vincent’s nose “when you still have coke on your face.”

Vincent turned bright red, and even seemed to vibrate. He turned on his heel, and walked out of the room. It soon became obvious that Jack was to walk himself out. He didn’t hesitate a moment longer.

two

I

Jack sat in the corner, watching everything that went on. His shoulder was a bit stiff, but otherwise healed. He hated waiting for people. It made him feel like he had no control. And in his line of work, control was everything. The young waiter had already begun to bother him, coming back every few minutes to ask if he were ready to order. He began to wonder how many times he’d have to tell him
that he was still waiting for someone, and that he’d be ready then, and only then.

The bell on the door jingled. Jack looked up, hoping it was for him. It was, but it wasn’t who he was expecting. It was the informant, Rick Parisch. He was a double-dealing PI, and that made Jack like him right away. He walked with a strange limp that made him easy to pick out of a crowd. Jack had never asked about it, but he’d just assumed he’d acquired it while on assignment somewhere. Rick made his way to the back, where Jack sat, and sat down across from him. Jack wasn’t in the mood to deal with him right now.

“I’m in recovery,” he said before Rick could even start.

“I realize that,” Rick said. “But I think you should hear about this, anyway.”

Jack reached for his wallet. A shark was what Rick really was. Just like every other informant in the city. That’s how they made their living. But Rick held out his hand, stopping him.

“Don’t worry about that,” he said. Jack had no objections. He put his wallet back in his pocket.

“So, what’s up?” he asked. Now that he didn’t have to pay, he was actually curious.

“There’s rumors all over the street,” he said. “About how you—“ he poked Jack in the chest “Single handedly took out half of that Pinko army Yuri sent out to start the damn war.”

Jack shrugged it off. “Yuri starting the war?” he asked. “For one, there were only three guys, and none of them knew what had hit them. They thought I was with them.”

“What about that other guy? What’s his name?” Rick asked.

“Who? Perce?” Jack asked. He took a sip of his water. “He’s fine. Laying low for a while. Just until I need him again. I’m actually waiting for his sorry ass to show up.”

“And the Russians still haven’t figured you out, yet?” Rick asked. “It’s been almost a month.”

“As far as they’re concerned, it was all Perce. Like I said, they I though I was with them.”

Rick laughed as though he didn’t believe what he was hearing. On some strange level, Jack almost didn’t believe it. Someone should have caught on by now, but somehow, no one had.

“I just have to keep doing what I’m doing, and I’ll win this whole thing,” Jack said. Another man walked up and hovered over Rick. “It’s about damn time,” Jack said. Rick slowly stood up, and cowered around him. Perce was a rather large man, by anyone’s standards, which was what made him a good thing to keep around. He sat across from Jack, as watched Rick walk out of the diner.

II

Yuri paced across the floor, making eye contact with only the cool, damp cement. The broken window above his head was letting in a little bit of rain, but it wasn’t enough to bother him; not right now, anyway. Others stood against the walls, waiting. These were bad times for them, and it seemed like it was only getting worse.

“You’re absolutely sure?” he said finally, still not looking up from the cellar floor.

“Every one was killed,” Daniil said. “Those who managed to get out died in hiding.”

“And Novak?” Yuri asked.

“Dead, too.”

Yuri stopped and took a deep breath. “I want Dimitri found,” he said. “I want the son-of-a-bitch that is responsible fed to the hounds. I want the Capellis to know hell this very night!” He looked long and hard at each of the men in the cellar. “I want justice. I want every wop in the country to fear the Romanov name. They will answer to me!” he screamed.

The men all new that what Yuri wanted was impossible, but no one spoke up about it. Some shifted uneasily; others dug their hands deep into their pockets. One man, pulled out a cigarette, but his hands shook so badly, he couldn’t light it. He crammed the lighter back into his pocket, keeping the cancer
stick pressed tightly between his lips.

“I want Francis Capelli dead,” Yuri said softly.

Yuri stood in silence, looking back at the floor. None of the men spoke, nor did they look at their boss. Most looked at the floor along with him, examining the cracks in the cement, or a scuff on their shoes. They all stood in silence, waiting for Yuri to start again.

There was a light knock on the door. Yuri looked up at the guard, eager to see who was behind the thick slab of steel. The guard cracked the door open enough to look through to see who it was. He dropped his hand from the latch, allowing the door to swing open further. As the shadowed figure stepped over the threshold, Yuri took a step back. His hands dropped to his side and his face turned white. His style was different, but it was no mistaking who walked into their presence.

“M—Mr. Novak,” Yuri said shakily. “Word on the street is that you are dead. But… But here you stand, in my presence.”

Jack slowly took off the large coat he wore, and draped it over the back of one of the chairs.

“Don’t always trust the word on the street,” He said. “You never know who put it there.

III

Jack stood in front of the window over looking the alley below. The thin wire mesh was all that stood between him and the gang fight that took place unnoticed in the still night. The cool breeze from the bay felt good on his face. Something about the sea air made the place livable. But above all, it helped him clear his mind. He’d gone too far too fast, and now he wasn’t sure where to go. He assumed that it would all come to him as he went along, but assumption was a deadly game to play.

A cockroach slowly made its way up the peeling window frame. Jack looked over at the small creature, watching its every move. He brought his hand over to the cold wood, and gently nudged the roach onto his palm. It crawled around his hand, trying to figure Jack out. Just as Jack was doing to it, the roach examined every detail of Jack’s hand. Every hair and imperfection, the roach was finding and logging somewhere in its brain. Jack brought it up to eye level as he sat down on the couch.

“How many of you are there in my house?” he wondered aloud. By now, the roach was bored with Jack, and it just sad still on the tips of his fingers. Jack sighed, and sat the roach on the end table, near a puddle of spilled beer. “Mi casa su casa, no?” Jack said with a chuckle. He shook his head and leaned back into the stiff cushions. Perce’s kids were the only thing that bothered Jack about what he needed to do. He didn’t like the way it made him feel to know that he was endangering their father. He knew Perce could take care of himself, but there was always that nagging “what if” factor that batched up everything in the history of everything. But there was no other option. If he didn’t go after Yuri, then he could never get the ball rolling enough to piss anyone off. He sighed deeply, and sat up. He needed to call Perce up to do his final part.

IV

Once again, he found himself waiting for Rick, falling victim to an annoying waiter. He was always late, and Jack was always early. He didn’t understand why it needed to be so difficult to talk to the damn informant. Rick Parisch wasn’t much different from the rest of the underworld. Like everyone else, he held a legitimate job, but he also helped out as much as he could. But what set Rick aside from everyone else, is that he used one job to help boost the other. While Rick was also the local informant, he was also the local Private Detective. He handled legitimate cases, but he didn’t always turn up any real great evidence. If there was someone in the way of something, Rick was the man you’d pay off. He’d set the guy up, and send him to prison. Jack knew most of Rick’s story, but not all of it.

Jack sat in his booth seat, staring out the large bay window. Something about the people that walked by the restaurant intrigued him. Every person was different in the same way that they were all the same. But the waiter soon came back, and jerked him back out of his thought process.

“Are you ready yet?” he asked for the tenth time.

“No, I’m waiting for someone.” Jack looked back out the window, but the waiter didn’t leave. He turned back and faced him. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready. Go bother some one else.”

The waiter stood around for several seconds before leaving. Jack hated this place, but the food was the best on the east side. The food was worth the wait.

Rick came in the diner about an hour late. As he walked back to the table, Jack dug his wallet out of his pants pocket, and set it on his lap. He watched Rick walk down to the table and sit.

“Now what?” Rick asked. “You gonna have me start another rumor, just so that you can do something stupid again? You’re making me look like a real idiot, Jack.”

Jack pulled a hundred from his wallet and set it on the table.

“Shut up and let me talk,” he said. He kept a finger pressed firmly on the bill. It’s not that he didn’t trust Rick, he just didn’t want to risk losing that trust.

“The Romanovs are smarter than I thought,” he said. “Yuri not so much, but a lot of the under bosses seem to have some kind of idea. I don’t want them to have ideas, Rick.” He tapped on the bill.

“So, what do you want me to do now?” Rick asked.

“Just do your job,” Jack said. “You heard through the grapevine that there is a member of the Capelli family that is looking to do Yuri in.” He took a sip of his water and cleared his throat. “I need you to make sure that this information gets to Yuri.”

Rick stared blankly at Jack. “What?” he asked. “Do you have a single thought in your head? What the hell is this going to do?”

Jack shook his head and sighed. “We’re going to have Perce come in and do something for us,” he said. He looked around the diner, then returned to his partner. “Yuri will come to me, asking for protection. When Perce comes in to do the job, all I have to do is shoot him.”

“You’re gonna shoot Perce?” Rick asked. “I don’t get it.”

Jack shook his head. “Just get the word out that there is some real bad blood between the two families,” he said. “Just let me take care of the rest.”

V

“You do understand what this means,” Yuri said. Jack nodded. “I believe some one is trying to kill me.”

“Where did you hear this?” Jack asked. He tried to sound as concerned as possible.

“From Daniil,” Yuri said. “He told me this morning that there is a hit out.” He slowly stood up. “And do you know from who?” he asked. Jack shook his head. “From Francis Capelli! That’s who!”

Jack jumped back slightly. Yuri was old, but he still had plenty of spirit left. He tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to mind that wouldn’t make him look like he was part of the plot.

“I want you to do me a favour,” Yuri said.

“Anything.”

“No man in his right mind would come through the front,” Yuri said as he sat back down. “I know what you’re capable of. I want your protection.”

Jack nodded. “Of course,” he said.

Yuri waved his hand at the guard. He opened the door, letting in three other men. “I want you to make sure no one gets in here tonight,” Yuri said.

Jack didn’t like this. He was supposed to be shooting blanks, but the situation was now completely out of his control. There were now three witnesses that were to be in the same room when he and Perce were to face off. He had kids, and that was all Jack could think about. But he had to remain calm. These were the smarter, less naïve of the family, and they could certainly smell a rat when it got near enough.

“Don’t fuck up,” Yuri said. “I’d hate to see any of you have an accident.”

VI

The four of them sat in their positions, hidden in the shadows. The other three that Yuri had brought in were all telling dirty jokes, but Jack wanted no part in it. Part of it was character; Mr. Novak had no sense of humor to speak of, but most of it was fear. He was afraid that he might have to pull the trigger. He was afraid that they might catch on. He was afraid that he might blow everything. All or nothing, like everything tended to be.

It took a few hours of nothing happening for Jack to begin to wonder if Rick had screwed up. He was ready to get up and leave when the dogs outside began barking. He had to tell him self several times over that this was what needed to be done. He couldn’t puss out, because he had three other men in the room that would jump at the chance to catch a double-dealer.

The lock on the door blew apart, and spread itself across the cement floor. The heavy doors swung open, letting in the light breeze that came with the night. Five shadows began to stretch across the ground as they drew nearer. If this was Rick’s doing, he was a very stupid man. They slowly walked into the loading area, scanning every part of the open area. Jack backed further into the shadows, waiting for someone else to make the first move.

The youngest of the three Yuri had sent fired first. It only took a few seconds for the intruders to begin firing blindly into the shadows. These were not Rick’s men. Jack watched as Venjumin took a hit in the chest, and fell from the ledge he hid on. He knew that some one had screwed up, but that didn’t matter now. The other two were quickly running out of ammo, and the five on the ground had semi-autos. Jack drew his weapon, and took a deep breath. He was able to take out two of them before they found where he was hiding. He could hear the bullets shooting past his head. He only had four more rounds left, and his help was out of rounds. He needed to get rid of the last three, but he was running out of time and options.

The most beautiful sound Jack had ever heard echoed through the room. The hollow clicking of an empty clip.

“Damnit!” one of them shouted. The firing stopped all together. Jack only heard one empty clip. But he had to take that chance. He pulled him self from his little corner far enough to squeeze off his remaining rounds. Somehow, he’d managed to get all of them. He jumped down from his cave and ran across the bay to check on Venjumin. He was already dead. He dropped his Berretta and knelt down beside him. This had gone too far.

VII

He watched as the stranger stood out on the driveway, fumbling with his keys. It wasn't just something about him that Vincent didn't like, it was everything. The son Francis never had. Francis. He was blind to everything that went on around him. How did he not see what Jack was doing to him; to the whole family.
Vincent shut the curtain on the outside world. He tightened the sash on his bathrobe, and walked up the stair to his father's study. He didn't bother to knock; he was family, he shouldn't have to. Francis looked up, throwing a sour glance Vincent's way.

"What do you want?" he asked.

Vincent shut the large door, and leaned against it.

"I want you to listen," he said. Francis said nothing. "This guy you got is no good," he said. "What does he offer that all your other hired muscle doesn't?"

"He's young. He's quick--"

"He's dangerous!" Vincent stood up straight and approached Francis' desk. "He's no good. The guy came out of no where, and you just allowed him into our home. As your son, I'm begging you--"

Francis stood up. “As my son?” he asked. “As my son? You’re no son of mine.

Something deep inside Vincent had been torn from his very being. Any last bit of pride he had was gone. “I want you out of my house,” Francis said. “You have nothing to contribute to—“

Vincent slammed his hands on Francis’ desk, rattling the empty bottles that sat dangerously near the edge. “Nothing to contribute? Take a look at your ‘good’ son!”

“Don’t you bring him into this!” He slammed his fists on the desk, sending an empty bottle crashing to the floor. “You’ll never amount to even half of anything Francis is! Get out!”

“No!” Vincent shouted. He slouched back into a defensive position, as though Francis would take pity on him. He couldn’t leave. His father would have him killed if he left. “You can’t make me,” he said quietly. Francis lunged over his desk at Vincent, shoving him to the ground. Vincent’s fingernails dug into his father’s face, drawing small beads of blood. Francis freed his hand from Vincent’s death grip, and pulled his belt from his pants. The leather against Vincent’s face brought fire to his skin. Vincent reached up, tearing the belt from Francis’ hand. He lashed his father once across the top of his head, then threw the beast of leather and brass across the room. He watched as it clanged against the wall, taking his eyes from Francis just long enough to loose what little control of the situation he had gained. Francis sat himself up straight, pinning Vincent to the ground under his legs. He balled his fist and let loose. The blood rushing to the surface of his skin felt hot, making him sick to his stomach. The taste of iron in his mouth made him gag. A person can swallow a pint of their own blood before they get sick-- Vincent wanted to throw up. He couldn’t fight back. There was no more energy left; it had all bled through the cuts Francis had created with his fist. He felt he could die right there on the floor, and Francis wouldn’t care; he’d only be pissed that his blood had stained the carpet. Something cracked and broke loose inside Vincent’s mouth. As he gasped for air, a sharp fragment of broken tooth found its way down his throat. He tried to turn his head to cough it up, but he couldn’t. Francis wouldn’t stop. He wanted Vincent dead, and if an accident was never going to happen, then he was going to take care of it himself.

Finally, help came rushing up the stairs, in the form of Leigh and Carolina. They were the only two people who still respected Vincent. Carolina ripped her husband from Vincent, unable to calm his rage with sweet words. Finally, he was able to roll over to hack up what he had inhaled. Leigh was there, trying to help him up. He wasn’t aware of it, but he was somehow relaxed as he lay sprawled across the floor, gasping for that godsend breath of life.

three

I

Vincent lay in bed, staring at the shadows cast by the streetlamp outside his window. There was a slight breeze rustling the dry leaves in the large oak that he used to hide from his father in when he was in high school. He wanted to hide out there now, but he was too old for that. He knew that he’d get out there, and manage to fall down to the street. What he wouldn’t give to be six years old again, and still on good terms with Francis. Back when Francis considered him family. Back when he could leave the house without fear of some sort of “accident” happening. Sometimes it was best to just keep one’s mouth shut, but secrets can’t be kept forever. Especially with Catholic Guilt.

He sat up around midnight, unable to stand the last heat wave of summer any longer. He shuffled over to the window that faced the street, and pushed it open. There was a young couple standing under the streetlamp below. They were laughing about something, but Vincent didn’t care what about. He was too tired to care. He looked up through the branches of the oak, wondering if any of them would still be able to hold his weight. He leaned out of his window, and reached out for one of the branches.

The laughing below stopped for a few seconds, then erupted into something fierce. Vincent looked down at the two on the street, intending to give them a piece of his mind.

“Don’t fall, Vince!” the girl said with a chuckle. Vincent’s mind stopped, and he almost fell out of his window. It was Leigh down there under the streetlamp. Vincent didn’t need to think twice about who she was with. He pulled himself back into his bedroom, and found his slippers. As quickly as he could, he raced downstairs. As he came to the Foyer downstairs, Leigh walked inside.

“Vince, what are you doing?” she asked. She sounded genuinely concerned, but Vincent didn’t care. He threw the front door open, and ran out to Jack’s Charger. He was getting ready to start the car, when Vincent grabbed the keys out of his hand, and threw them into the grass.

“Do you need something?” Jack asked.

Vincent’s thought process stopped once again. He reached into the car, and tried to pull Jack through the open window. He had his seatbelt on, which only hindered the process.

“Holy shit, it’s hammer-time!” Jack blurted out. His arms had found themselves tangled up in his seatbelt, leaving him unable to reach for his knife.

“You stay away from her!” Vincent shouted. “You’re not welcome around here anymore.”

“That’s not your—“

Vincent punched him in the face. “Shut the fuck up!” he said. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but it’s not appreciated.”

“Get off—“

Vincent punched him again. “Stay away from my family,” he barked. He punched Jack once more before letting go and walking back inside.

Jack pulled himself back into the car, and sat in silence. His nose had been broken, and was bleeding the Niagara Falls. He wanted to just leave, but he had no idea where Vincent had thrown his keys. He could always hotwire the car, but that would be something else he’d have to get fixed. There was nothing he could do but wait for the bleeding to stop so he could look for his keys.

II

Leigh rushed out to the front room to meet Vincent. He pushed right past her, and went for the stairs.

“Vince,” Leigh pleaded. “Vince, please.”

Vincent stopped. “I can’t believe you,” he said. “Don’t you see what he’s trying to do? He’s just using you, Leigh!”

“Just stop, Vince.” She was holding back a torrent of sobs. She hated him at that moment. She knew what he had planned to do; he was going to try to make his image with their father better by telling him about Leigh. She couldn’t let him do that, because all that would accomplish would be another fight between the two of them. She was scared, no doubt, about what Francis would do to her afterward, but he wouldn’t hold back on Vincent.

“Vince, Please,” She said softly. She had to appeal to his sensitive side; she knew it was there-- somewhere. “You don’t know what you’re doing. Just let things be.”

Vincent stared at her, the look in his eyes showing that he knew what was right. He took a deep breath. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt,” he said finally. “You know how much you mean to me.”

Leigh tried to hold back her tears. She needed to stay calm, at least while she was talking to Vincent. She knew his intentions meant well, but he was notorious for screwing things up. “Just let things be, Vince. Please.”

III

Jack stumbled around in the damp grass, unable to find his car keys. Blood and sweat stung his eyes, only making his search seem more impossible. Every part of his body ached, every move he made felt like it brought death just that much closer. What he wouldn’t give to be back home, at least knowing he’d be somewhat safe.

A flood of white light washed over the front lawn, stopping with Jack caught in the middle of its sights.

“Jesus Fuck,” He muttered to himself. The last thing he needed to deal with was one of Francis’ thugs coming to give him hell. The driver’s side door flew open as someone stepped out on to the lawn. It was pointless to fight.

“Hey!” His image was completely flooded out by the headlights. Jack stood up straight and tried to shield his eyes from the light. “What are you doing here?”

“Just looking for my keys,” He replied. He tried not to sound overly out of place, but even he knew it sounded bogus.

The door slammed shut. The driver walked across the lawn, with clenched fists. “Listen, pal,” he said. “You’re gonna get the hell off the property, even if that means I gotta make you.”

Jack turned to face his adversary. He didn’t care about the blinding high beams in his face. They didn’t matter any more. “Let me find my keys, and I’ll be on my way,” he said calmly.

IV

Frankie helped Jack up the stairs and inside the house.

“Hey, Dad!” He shouted as they reached the foyer. He wasn’t sure if Francis could hear him, but it was worth a shot.

Vincent stood in the hall, his arms crossed tightly against his chest. The look in his eyes was pure venom. Once again, Jack had managed to get the better of him, and once again, he had managed to find support within the family. He watched as Frankie rushed upstairs to get their father, leaving Jack standing alone, leaning against the wall. He was wearing the burgundy shirt Francis had given to him. The colour hid the growing stain, but not well enough. Vincent hated him; he hated every thing about him. He hated how Francis like Jack, how he trusted him, yet he shunted his own son to the side, like he was nothing. He wanted to leave, just get away from everything he hated, every thing he feared; but outside scared him even more. At least at home, he knew what to be afraid of. Out there, he had to be afraid of everything. His father, the one person who wanted him dead, was the only thing keeping him alive. He hated him for that.

Jack noticed Vincent, standing there, staring at him. He didn’t like how Vincent didn’t blink; his gaze locked firmly on Jack. Knowing better, Jack stuck his tongue out at Vincent. Immature as it was, it made him feel somehow better. Vincent started to walk across the room, but he stopped. Francis’ office door slammed shut, and he and Frankie came stomping down the stairs. Knowing what was best for him, Vincent turned and ran to his room. Maybe he’d go hide in the oak tree after all.

“Jesus Christ, Jack!” Francis said when he first laid eyes on him. “What happened to you?”

Jack looked toward the way Vincent ran. To tell, or not to tell; that was the question at hand. He remembered the look in Vincent’s eyes as he stood there, half hidden in the shadows. To tell.

“I don’t want to be the one to cause a family argument,” he said. “But I really don’t think Vince is too fond of my presence.” He waited for Francis’ next move. It never came. “Maybe it would be best if I kept my distance for a while.”

Francis gazed down the hall, hoping to catch a glimpse of Vincent. “No,” he said. “Don’t let him get to you.” Check.

He studied Francis before making his next move. What would his reaction be? “You’re absolutely sure?” he said. “I don’t want to cause any trouble. I’d hate to think I’m in the way or something.”

Francis shook his head. “Jack,” he said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You are welcome in my home any time.” Check mate. Total and complete trust.
















I

For the first time in his life, Jack was truly scared. He found himself at a bit of a dilemma, not wanting to proceed with what needed to be done. He hated himself for it. There had to be another way. The pain and fear of the night to come ate at him, gnawing at his mind.

The rain that fell from the heavy, black sky was somehow soothing. Almost like the rains from the heavens above were part of some holy baptism, cleansing him of all his wrong doings, only to be replaced this very night. Hidden by the drenching onslaught, a rogue tear rolled unnoticed down his cheek. But things wouldn’t get any better if he just stood outside all night. It needed to be done. He engaged himself in a brief meditation, to calm his nerves, and walked up the stairs to the front door. It was locked, but it wouldn’t stop him. The key still hung on his oversized key chain, allowing his entry into the foreboding manor.

All was quiet, but he knew where to go. Upstairs, where the only light shone, was where he needed to go. He proceeded up the stairs, still not sure if he was ready. He could hear his heart pounding in his chest, like a set of African drums. It was his only company as he slowly climbed the long flight of stairs. Only once before had this climb seemed as long. And now, it was time to close it all off.

Jack reached the landing, and paused for a brief moment. He dried his face with his hands, feeling the sick heat that radiated from his cheeks. But it needed to be done. No knocking, not any more. He just opened the large oak door, and stepped inside the dimly lit office.

Francis sat behind the desk, as though he was waiting for something. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see him. He only leaned back in his chair, and folded his hands on his desk. But Jack could see beyond his act. In his eyes, he could see the fear that had built up inside of him. The thing for which Francis had been waiting all night had finally come, and in its worst form. They just stayed there, motionless, staring into one another’s eyes, both knowing that this was where it was all to end. One betrayal to avenge another. And they both knew it.

A tear had managed to free itself from Jack’s grip, escaping down his cheek. He barely noticed. But Francis did. It almost seemed to have touched him, somewhere deep, that neither even knew existed.

“Jack, what are you doing here?” Francis asked. He was scared; Jack could hear that much in his voice. “What are you doing here?”

“You act like you don’t know,” Jack said calmly. He never knew how he managed it. Someone else entirely always seemed to have taken over him when situations got too tense. “Your children have all known what’s been going down for the last few months, Frank. Why haven’t you been able to see it?” He sauntered over to the desk, pulling his hand cannon from under his coat. “Denial, maybe? You couldn’t let that little queer of a son of yours be better than you? He’s a lot smarter than you like to believe.” Francis couldn’t take his eyes from the Desert Eagle in Jack’s hand. “It’s a beautiful weapon, isn’t it?” Jack asked. “The pinnacle of Israeli arms design.” Jack pointed it at Francis’ face. “Enough to make you wanna piss your pants, isn’t it?” He pulled the weapon away from Francis’ face, and took a few steps back.

“What the hell are you waiting for?” Francis asked. “If you came here to kill me, then do it. Don’t toy with me!”

Jack cocked a brow at Francis’ statement. “Who said anything about coming to kill you?” he asked.

“I always liked you, Jack,” Francis said. “I did. And now you come into my house, where I raised my kids--”

“--Three of them. Remember that--”

“--and you threaten me? I made you who you are, Jack. What the hell do you possibly have to gain from this?”

Jack shook his head. He was beginning to let his emotions run; he was getting sloppy. “Frank. Francis. The Russians didn’t destroy themselves. As far as they’re concerned, you sent guys out there to do them in. And I know that you thought the Russians were behind that hit on Frankie.” He paused a moment to think about what he had just said. “Well, they were, but who do you think sent them? Not Yuri. Oh no. He doesn’t have the balls.”

“How?” Francis asked.

“I wasn’t always out there with Leigh. She never had to worry about anything, Frank. As long as I was calling the shots on both sides, nothing was going to happen to her. I can’t believe you never saw this coming.”

Francis stood up. He wanted to go for the gun in his desk, but something held him back. He just stood there, like the neighbour’s cat caught in your headlights. But he wasn’t looking at Jack. He was looking past him, at something out on the landing. Jack took a step closer to Francis, trying to put a name to whatever thought was running through his head.

“What the hell is wrong with--”

An explosion shot through the room, rattling the empty bottles on the desk. Jack felt his heart stop, and had to lean against the desk to keep from falling over. He looked up, expecting to see Francis, but he was gone. All that remained of Francis lay in a bloody heap on the floor. His face was gone, now just a sticky mess of bone and brain matter. Jack turned to face the landing, expecting to find anything but Vincent. He stood there, looking like he should be in Florida, drinking a margarita on the beach instead of holding a pistol in the air. The emotion on his face was nothing short of hatred, though the power of the D’Eagle in his hand had scared the hell out of him.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Vince?” Jack screamed. He shot a glance back at Francis.

“You didn’t have to call me a queer, Jack,” Vincent said. “That was kinda mean.”

Jack still struggled to pull himself back together. “Fuck you,” he said.

Vincent walked into the room, for the first time with out the treat of being strangled or beaten. He walked up to the desk, and stood next to Jack.

“Not so tough now, are you?” he said as he looked at his father, the dark pool growing larger and larger by the second.

“You scare me, Vince,” Jack said. “You scare the hell out of me.”

“Good,” Vincent said, not taking his eyes from Francis.

II

Jack heard the metallic click of the chamber being loaded, but he was too slow to turn around. He didn’t hear the blast, nor did he feel the cold piece of metal shove its way through his back. If anything, he felt suddenly cold. Air escaped his lungs, and he was beginning to loose feeling in his hands. He turned around slowly, meeting eyes with Francis’ other son. Now it was Vincent’s turn to be scared. Jack fell to the floor, leaving Vincent’s face and arms sprayed with blood. He watched as Frankie turned, and walked back toward the landing. Vincent picked his hand cannon up from the desk, and raised it to meet Frankie’s head.

“You’re a damn coward,” he said. Frankie stopped and turned around. He was more entertained at the fact that Vincent had a weapon than scared.

“I’m a coward?” he asked. “How the hell am I a coward?” For the first time in ages, he looked Vincent in the eye. “You don’t have the balls,” he said. He started to turn to leave.

“No?” Vincent asked. Frankie turned just in time to meet a hollow point in the face. “At least I didn’t shoot you in the back,” he said under his breath, watching as Frankie collapsed and fell down the stairs.

The shrill sound of police sirens cut through the air, as they tore down the road. Vincent was stuck. Some damn pain in the ass neighbour had called the cops. Time was quickly running out. Scrambling for a way out, Vincent shoved his pistol down the front of his pants, praying that he didn’t blow his own nuts off. There was an oak tree out Francis’ window, but it was a bit of a jump to get to it. Vincent rushed over to the window, and pushed it open. This was his only way, and he knew it. His damn sandals wouldn’t make it much easier. He climbed out on to the ledge, pressing himself against the wall. He leaned over, and pushed the window shut, making his escape less obvious. One shot at greatness. He pressed himself against the wall, gauging the distance. The front door had been kicked in, and he could hear the stomping of heavy boots on the hardwood flooring. Last chance. He jumped into the tree, and climbed as high as he could. He sat on the highest bow and prayed the cops didn’t bring dogs.

III

“Hey! Raymond! We got a breather!”

The detective rushed up the blood soaked stairs to see what the beat cop was talking about. He pulled his radio from his belt, and called for the medics to get upstairs.


“Got an ID on him?” he asked as the medics hauled the stretcher out of the room

The cop opened the dog-chewed leather wallet he’d found in the coat pocket. “One Richard Parisch, PI,” he said. “Looks like we weren’t the only ones these guys had pissed off.

The detective looked at the sheet-covered mass on the floor. “Yeah,” he said. “Looks like it.”