Public Enemy Number One - An EP Novella by kharizzmatik

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6822405/1/

"I sense someone's tapping into my phones, why do

I got this feeling in my bones I might die soon

The F.B.I might be tryin' to pull my file soon

I might be walking blind fold into a typhoon"

- Eminem "Public Enemy Number One"

Prologue

There are days that are never forgotten, days that stand out in history. People

gauge time by them, their lives nothing but a string of events with a bunch of

mediocrity in between. Most couldn't recall what they were doing on September

5th, 2001, or the 6th, or any other day that week, but they did know what they

were doing on the morning of the 11th. You could ask anyone about it and you'd

be guaranteed to hear a story about how they heard the news of the terrorist

attack in New York. They'd remember the tiniest details, not because they were

significant, but because the day was. Their world had been put on pause, the

moment forever seared in their mind.

However tragic, something had finally broken the monotony.

I was thirty-seven at the time. Esme and I had been in Phoenix and were

supposed to fly out later that night to go back to Chicago, but she was so shaken

she refused to get on the plane. I ended up having to rent a car for her sake and

drive over 1700 miles straight. It was the first and last time I'd ever been late for

a meeting. I told her she was irrational and complicating my life. She told me I

was an asshole.

Maybe she was right.

April 4th, 1968. I was four. I found the lady that worked in our house crying in

the kitchen. I didn't ask her what was wrong, but she took it upon herself to tell

me anyway-Martin Luther King Jr. had been assassinated in Memphis. That was

the day I learned she was a slave. I was too young to really understand the

concept and told her to just leave if she didn't want to be there. For some reason,

she listened to me. She didn't make it very far.

It was the first time I'd ever seen someone die.

July 21st, 1969. I was five. I sat on the floor in front of the television with my

sister and watched Neil Armstrong take those first few steps on the moon. Jane

said she was going to do it someday, but my mother told her the closest she'd

ever get to outer space was when she went to Heaven.

I begged to differ, because she wouldn't even make it there.

January 28, 1986. I was twenty-three. Esme and I were having lunch together at

a local diner and the television by the counter was broadcasting the latest space

shuttle launch. Everyone cheered at lift-off but were silenced a minute later when

the Challenger exploded live in mid-air. Esme gasped, horrified. I could see her

trembling. People around us cried.

My first thought was that if Jane still wanted to be an astronaut, she'd missed the

perfect mission.

November 22nd, 1963. The day I was born. I'd heard the story of my birth

dozens of times over the years, but that wasn't why the date held significance. It

had nothing to do with me, actually. People remembered it because of John F.

Kennedy's assassination.

My birth certificate listed my time of birth at 12:25 pm, a mere five minutes

before the President was shot. I wasn't breathing when I was born-the cord had

been wrapped around my neck so I was cold and blue. Technically speaking, I'd

been dead, but they managed to revive me as my mother gave birth to Jane. She

came out bright red and screaming. Fitting, really. We came into the world in our

own unique ways.

There were photographs from the hospital of the occasion, but I wasn't in any of

them. Instead of focusing on me and Jane, everyone's attention had been on a

small portable radio sitting off to the side.

The Mafia had ties to Kennedy. My father personally worked to get him votes in

Illinois, and other made men across the country did the same in their territories.

After he was elected, as a way to show his gratitude for the help, he declared war

on the Mafia with the help of his brother Robert, the Attorney General. The

Justice Department indicted over 100 men for organized crime, which, needless

to say, left a lot of Mafiosi unhappy. They were out for blood and when La Cosa

Nostra wanted blood, it got it. Even the President wasn't above the Mafia's wrath.

So whenever someone recalled that day and said that my father's first words

were, "I can't believe we actually did it," I suspected it also had nothing to do

with me. He'd never admit it, but up until the day he died I believed he harbored

secrets worse than the ones I now carried.

I tried to never think of those things, though. They were moments where people

came together and, for a day, united. They shared joy, and pain, and shock. They

cried together. They found common ground. They celebrated. They grieved.

It felt fraudulent.

Because after the day passed, so did everything else. Most people couldn't recall

what they did on September 12th, 2001, or the 13th. They were just days, much

like every other day. Time went on and so did life, but the memory of that one

single afternoon, when their dismal lives received a wake-up call, would haunt

them forever.

04/05/1968. 07/22/1969. 01/29/1986. 11/23/1963. They're nothing but dates.

No personal attachment to them. No significance. No meaning. Just numbers.

Story of my life.

I - Hell in a Handbasket

October 1996

33 years old

Chicago, IL

The deranged knocking echoed through the house, making my head pound. I

staggered down the steps toward the front door, groggy and still half-asleep. I

had told them I was going home because I didn't feel well, so for someone to

interrupt my night took guts. There was never any telling what I'd find on the

other side of the door, but whatever it was had better be important tonight.

And by important, I meant life or death, because if it wasn't I'd likely make it so.

Somehow, as I made it to the foyer, the knocking managed to grow more frantic.

I groaned and ran my hands down my face, trying to clear my head and wake up.

I was agitated and that wasn't a good thing for whoever was standing on my

front step.

"I'm coming," I yelled, shaking my head. All I asked for was one night where my

phone didn't ring. One night where I could relax and spend time with my wife

without interruption. One night where I didn't have to worry about who was doing

what with who and why. One night where people left me alone.

One night where someone didn't come knocking.

Present Day

Chicago, IL

There was a timid knock on the office door, so faint I barely heard it over the

music playing in the club. I ignored the tapping and continued to sort through the

paperwork on my desk. Mafiosi knew they were to carry themselves with

confidence, especially when dealing with the most dangerous of men. I didn't

care if they were staring down Lucifer personally, surrounded by brimstone and

hellfire leading them straight to eternal damnation. They needed to keep their

composure, be prepared to fight and never ever let their fear show. The streets

were ruthless and our rivals wouldn't hesitate to make a move at the first sign of

weakness. Vulnerabilities were exploited, and the worst thing they could do was

come off as uncertain. It didn't matter if they were wrong, they needed to always

appear right. It was the 'fake it until you make it' philosophy. They didn't have to

believe in themselves, they just had to convince everyone else that they did.

And I, most certainly, was not convinced.

There was another knock, still weak. Hesitant. Unsteady. Again, I ignored.

"Boss, there's someone at the-"

I held my hand up to silence Benjamin and he stopped speaking abruptly. He'd

initiated a few months earlier, the son of one of our high ranking Capo's named

Frank Mancini. Benjamin was a smart kid, good with numbers. He could've had a

bright future but instead chose the life of crime, more than likely for the same

reason most of the younger ones did-the money, power and respect.

It was a shame not many of them survived long enough to achieve any of it.

It took awhile for the third knock to come. It was louder, more determined. I

motioned for Benjamin to answer the door and sat back in my chair, glancing at

my Rolex as the boy entered. He was young, early twenties, and relatively fresh

within the organization. He still had the Young Turk mentality, believing

everything was open for negotiation. But, contrary to what he believed, I was the

only one in the room with the power to bend rules. He would learn that soon

enough, or he'd pay for his ignorance with his life.

"It's 9:03," I stated. "I told you 9. You're late."

"But I was here," he said defensively. "I was out in the hall."

I raised my eyebrows in disbelief that he was going to try to argue the matter.

"You have the audacity to make excuses?"

"No, I, uh..."

"I'm not interested in what you have to say. It's meaningless to me. I don't give

a rat's ass if you're ran over by a car out in the parking lot. You had better drag

your mangled body in here with enough time to be in my office when I tell you to

be in my office. Nothing short of death is reason enough to be late. Do you

understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

I could smell his fear. It reeked, filling my office with the sickly-sweet scent of

sweat and panic. I stared at him, watching as he fidgeted nervously under my

scrutiny. He was tall and lanky, nothing special about him. Nothing to make him

stand out. He was so mediocre, in fact, that I couldn't even recall his name. I was

almost certain it started with an S, but it wasn't as if it really mattered. He was

nothing but a number to me. A rank. A solider in the Mancini crew. Completely

replaceable.

I knew it sounded harsh, being that he was a person. He breathed the same air I

did. He had a family. A mother, a father, maybe a brother or a sister. He

probably had a girlfriend and might have even had a child. People loved him and

depended on him. To them, he was valuable, but I couldn't think of it that way. I

couldn't take that part of him into account. I had to be objective, calculating. I

had to do what was for the best for the Borgata as a whole, and not what would

help a single man at the bottom. If he wasn't a benefit to me, he was a liability.

"Stop fidgeting," I ordered, annoyed by his nervous behavior. How hard is it to

stand still? "You look like a fool."

"Sorry, sir," he said, attempting to stand up straight but his shoulders still

slumped forward, his body language screaming coward. He'd been brought into

the organization while Aro was still in power, in the last batch of initiations before

his shoddy reign ended. I couldn't understand what Aro saw in the boy to make

him worthy of wise-guy status, but it was too late for me to do anything about it

now. Once in, you're in for life. My only choice was to try to teach the boy his

place before someone saw their chance to take him out.

Or I had to take him out, for that matter.

"Do you have something for me?" I asked. He nodded, pulling out a rumpled up

manila envelope and sitting it on my desk in front of me. He glanced at the chair

beside him but thankfully didn't try to sit, considering I hadn't invited him to.

The world we lived in was sort of like a perpetual game of Simon Says, and I was

Simon. No one was to make a move - any move - without my consent. If they

tried anyway, whether it be because of a lapse in judgment or blatant ignorance,

they were immediately out - no buts about it. The difference, however, was that

life wasn't a game, so when you were out in my world there was no coming back

later for another try. No do-overs. No take backs.

I opened the envelope and pulled out a wad of bills that were neatly stacked and

secured with a rubber band. I scanned through it, noticing a few hundreds, but

the rest were twenties. Three-thousand dollars, at best.

"This is from the shipment your crew hijacked?" I asked. "What was on the

truck?"

"TVs."

"How many?"

"Maybe 500."

"500," I repeated. There were 487, to be exact. I had intel and knew what was on

that truck before I told any of them about it. I ran my business solely off facts,

not hunches, and I never sent my men to a job blindly. Unless, of course, it was

their intentional death I was sending them to. "LCD?"

"Yes."

"Sony? Toshiba? Samsung?"

"I'm not sure," he stammered, his anxiety growing at my line of questioning. He

knew he was in trouble. At least he was smart enough to sense that much.

"For argument's sake, we'll say they're some of the cheapest LCDs on the

market, even though I know for a fact they weren't. But that's, what, $650 a

pop? 500 TVs at $650 a piece, that's a total of...?"

He stared at me dumbly.

"$325,000, Boss," Benjamin chimed in, even though I already knew the answer. I

didn't chastise him for speaking out of turn. He was my numbers man, after all.

"Selling on the black market the prices are cut about 25%, so that's a profit

of...?"

Again, no response.

"$243,750," Benjamin said.

"Split five ways, since there were five men on the crew." Technically speaking,

there were six, but that was another story for another time.

Benjamin didn't even give the boy a chance to respond, knowing he wouldn't. I

wasn't even certain the ingrate could add. "$48,750."

"$48,750," I repeated. "And I receive a mere $3,000? What percentage is that?"

Benjamin answered again. "A tick above 6%."

"6%," I said, shaking my head as I stuffed the cash in the envelope and tossed it

back down on the desk. "The sales tax here in Chicago is nearly 10%. The federal

income tax on your earnings would've been 25%. And you bring me a measly

6%? What do you take me for?"

"I, uh, I didn't think..."

"Exactly," I cut him off. "I'm beginning to wonder if you even know how.

Everyone knows half automatically goes right back to the organization, and that

doesn't cover my taste. I get a share of everything. There's no negotiating that

fact and 6% doesn't cover it. If those leeches in the government deserve 25%,

why don't I? Tell me, what makes them better than me? Do they do more for you

than me? Do they look out for you?"

"No, sir."

"I didn't think so. Benjamin, what's 75% of $48,750?"

"Uh, $36,562," he replied, barely having to think about it. "Oh, and fifty cents."

"Sounds fair to me. I expect you to have $36,562 and fifty cents on my desk by 9

o'clock tomorrow night. That's about 24 hours."

The boy stared at me, flabbergasted. "But, that money... my family, sir..."

"This is your family," I said, jumping up and grabbing a hold of him. I yanked him

closer, pinning him down against my desk with one hand while I reached in my

top drawer and pulled out a knife. Fear flashed across his face when he saw it

and he started trembling, tears in his eyes as I pressed the tip of it to the base of

his throat. "Do you need to bleed again to remember the oath you took? La Cosa

Nostra comes first, no matter what. Is that too much for you to grasp? If so tell

me and I'll put an end to your commitment right now."

"No, sir! I'm sorry! I didn't mean any disrespect!"

"I'm sure you didn't," I replied, letting go of him and taking my seat once again.

He straightened himself up as I slipped the knife back into my desk. "Time's

ticking away. Nine o'clock tomorrow, and not a minute later."

"Yes, sir," he replied. I waved him off and he scurried out of the room, slamming

the door behind him in his haste. I cringed and glared at it, briefly considering

going after him.

"Uh, Boss," Benjamin said. He sounded nervous and rightfully so, since I was in a

bad mood and I still hadn't told him he could speak. "You do realize the math was

sort of wrong, right?"

"Wrong in what manner?" I asked, looking at him suspiciously. Benjamin never

screwed up calculations.

"Well, he already gave you $3,000. We forgot... er, I mean, I forgot to deduct it."

"Late fee," I replied. "A thousand for every minute I had to wait on him to man

up."

"Oh. Makes sense."

"I think it's quite reasonable," I said, shrugging. "Especially when you consider

the fact that I usually take a finger."

He was silent as I picked up my paperwork again. The hostess in my club had put

in her notice of resignation nearly two weeks ago and I'd yet to find anyone to fill

the position. Naturally I was particular about who I hired, especially when it was

someone who would be on such prominent display. Hundreds applied and there

were still dozens of applications and background checks to sift through for the

ones Esme felt might have potential. We seemed to differ on what that meant,

though, and I was running out of time, since I needed someone to be hired and

trained within the next twenty-four hours. I'd promised Esme I'd do it tonight and

arrange for whoever I picked to meet with us first thing Monday morning, but it

was proving to be a lot easier said than done.

Most who applied had little to no work history. Some had unreasonable demands.

Others lacked credible references. A few were just completely absurd.

"Since when is mastering Farmville a special skill that makes someone think

they're competent to do anything in real life?" I asked, balling up an application

and tossing it in the trashcan beside my desk.

"Hey, it could come in handy. Farmville teaches them how to hoe," Benjamin

replied, laughing at his own joke. "Get it, Boss? Hoe?"

"I get it, Benjamin," I replied, shaking my head with annoyance. "I just don't find

you very funny."

I yanked the front door open, annoyed at the disruption, but before I had a

chance to speak or even get a good look, whoever it was rushed right past me

into the house. Startled, I turned in their direction, seeing my brother-in-law,

Carlisle, frantically pacing around my foyer.

Something definitely wasn't right. "Carlisle?"

"I can't," he started, shaking his head. He was frazzled, his clothes askew and

hair a mess. "I can't... he, uh… they… she… oh God! My fucking God!"

He turned in my direction and I froze, horrified when I saw he was covered in

blood. He grabbed onto his hair tightly as if he were trying to pull it out, and

before I could make sense of what was happening his legs seemed to give out on

him. He collapsed to the ground in a heap, a piercing scream exploding from him.

I flinched as a sharp pain shot through my head at the sound, my ears instantly

beginning to ring.

For a second I grew dizzy and I worried I would collapse, too. I held on to the

wall to stabilize myself and knelt down beside Carlisle once my vision cleared. He

was full-on hysterical, sobbing loudly as tears streaked his face. I'd never seen

him that way before and it was confusing, because he typically didn't show any

emotion around me. He knew I hated it. I had no time for it. Crying was just

something I couldn't stomach being around and he respected that. The only time

I'd ever even seen him even tear up was the day Elizabeth had been raped.

And just like that, I knew. "Elizabeth."

He sobbed louder at the sound of her name. "My wife, my beautiful wife! Oh God,

they got her, Alec! They got my wife!"

"Got her?"

"She's gone," he said, his body violently shaking. "She's fucking gone! They killed

her! Why did they kill her? Oh God, why did it have to be her?"

I grabbed a hold of him, trying to get him under control as he started rambling

incoherently. His condition wasn't helping and I needed to know what happened.

I needed details, and I needed them right that moment.

"Where?" I asked. "Where is she? Where did it happen? How?"

He continued muttering and I shook him as hard as I could, trying to snap him

out of it. He grasped onto my arms tightly, like he was holding on for dear life.

His hands looked like they'd been soaked in blood, stained red with a bunch of it

still under his fingernails. The sight of it made me recall a conversation I'd once

had with his father, not long after Carlisle vouched for Elizabeth.

"It'll never work," Antonio had said. "I know he loves her, but it's just not

enough. She's going to get him killed. Mark my words, Evanson. That woman will

be the death of my son, and when that happens, his blood will be on her hands."

I'd said nothing in response. I didn't think there was anything for me to say.

But as I knelt there, looking at the blood caked on Carlisle's hands, I wished

Antonio were still alive so I could say what needed to be said - that he had been

wrong. He'd had it backwards. She wouldn't be the death of him, but he would of

her. Her blood was going to be on his hands.

Literally.

My cell phone started ringing and I pulled it from my pocket, seeing Edward

Cullen written on the screen. He was doing a fair job working the scene in Vegas

- better than I expected him to be doing. There had been a few mishaps so far

along the way, but he was good at making sure things were properly taken care

of. If he felt he was slipping he called for assistance, which I hated because it

showed his weaknesses, but I certainly preferred it to losing control of my

territory. Asking for help was the lesser of the two evils, and I had to give him

credit for being man enough to recognize that.

"Evanson speaking," I said, answering the call.

"Sir, it's, uh..."

He sounded nervous. Something wasn't right. "I know who it is, Edward. What do

you want?"

"We have a little, uh, situation."

"What sort of situation?"

"There's a, uh... situation at one of the spots," he stammered. "Christ, you know,

one of the clubs?"

"Just spit it out, Edward."

"The police are planning to raid it."

I tensed. Those were words I always dreaded hearing. As if I didn't have enough

to deal with. "Which spot?"

"The one on 5th and Willis," he said. "The Gentleman's Club. Apparently they've

been giving more than, uh, lap dances."

Contrary to popular belief, prostitution is not legal in Vegas. There are legal

brothels throughout the state of Nevada, some of which I made money off of, but

none within the city limits. As a misdemeanor the penalties weren't particularly

stiff, but the added attention from law enforcement that the illegal sex-trade

brings wasn't something I could tolerate. Some of my men felt differently,

however, and occasionally took it upon themselves to dapple in it. I let it be

known when I invested in businesses that they couldn't take the risk, but the

temptation of easy money often won out over their better judgment.

"How long have they been doing it, Edward?" I asked, wondering how far it had

gotten. Usually those things were caught and handled quickly before the situation

got too out of control and brought any heat upon me. Of course, I couldn't really

be held accountable for it as a low-investor who wasn't there to oversee any of

the operations. I had plausible deniabilitiy and such an insignificant charge would

never stick, but that wasn't what concerned me. I couldn't care less about paying

their petty fines, and years ago I probably would've been fine with taking the

risk. But the government caught on to our tricks and created the RICO statutes,

giving them the authority to bring us up on charges without having to prove us

guilty of a specific crime. So while I had plausible deniability that one particular

club was breaking the law, if more than one of them were to do it and I was

invested in them all, the government could charge me for merely being linked to

a crime ring. The ones actually committing the crimes would walk free, while their

infractions would earn me decades behind bars.

Needless to say, my line of work was a lot trickier than it used to be. RICO nearly

took down my brother-in-law, Carlisle, and I'd already been suspected of it once.

Something told me the second time I wouldn't be so lucky to walk away.

"I'm not sure," he responded. "A few weeks. Shit, maybe months. I don't know."

"Months?" I asked. "They've been running a whorehouse out of your area for

months and you're just now learning about it?"

"Yes, but, I mean, I'm not exactly a regular at these clubs," he said. "Not really

my scene."

"I don't expect you to go for the strippers, Edward," I said, frustrated. "But I do

expect you to know what's happening around you. This is my money we're talking

about... my life."

"I know," he replied. "Fuck, I'm sorry."

"Keep your apology. It means nothing to me," I said, throwing the papers back

down on my desk as I pushed my chair back to stand up. "Do your job before I

find someone else to do it. I won't tolerate carelessness. You are replaceable."

"Yes, sir."

The night Elizabeth had been murdered, I stopped by the hospital to see Edward.

He was unconscious at the time, hooked up to machines to breathe for him

because he wasn't well enough to do it on his own. They only allowed me a brief

visit but it was startling to see a small child in such a precarious situation. I'd

witnessed a lot of death in my life, had watched many people take their last

breath, but I was always able to stay detached. It was rationalized in my mind,

calculated moves for the greater good. There were sometimes the unfortunate

ones, those simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, but I reminded myself

that I didn't know their story. I didn't know who they really were under the

surface. I believed that somehow, someway, the universe knew what it was doing

by placing that person in the line of fire and I was merely doing what I had to do

- if they got caught up in it, then it was meant to happen. Some would call it

karma, but I liked to think of it as God's master plan.

Another number. Another statistic. Life goes on.

But as I stood in that hospital room, I finally saw a victim. I knew Edward's story.

I met him for the first time when he was an hour old. I witnessed him being

baptized. I watched as he took his first steps. I heard him stumble through

playing the piano. I knew he had a family, because I was his family.

When I left the ICU that day, instead of going home, I went down to the hospital

chapel and prayed. For the first time in my life, I asked God to intervene, to

spare someone caught up in our world.

I wasn't heartless. I cared for Edward. I didn't like threatening him, or hurting

him, and I didn't like the fact that he was involved in La Cosa Nostra. But he was,

and because of that I had no choice but to treat him as I did the others. And I did

it because I cared for him, because I wanted him to succeed. Because I wanted

him to survive. If it took me threatening his life for him to do what was necessary

to stay alive, then so be it. The end result was all that really mattered.

"I'll be there in a few hours," I said. Hanging up the phone, I looked at my watch.

10:22 pm. I certainly wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight.

"Do you have plans?" I asked Benjamin, who was still sitting in the corner of my

office. He looked bored and was obviously waiting for me to dismiss him.

"Just the usual," he said. "It's Saturday night so I'll probably drink a little liquor,

screw a few girls."

"A few?"

"Yeah, two," he replied. "Maybe three, if they're lucky."

I shook my head as he laughed. I never quite understood the appeal of

promiscuity. The more women you brought into your bed, the more trouble you

invited into your life. Most of the married men in the organization had goomahs,

young mistresses who were fascinated with the lifestyle. They were nothing more

than glorified prostitutes, trading sex for money and material things, like cars and

houses. I was sure it made some of the men feel good but it certainly wasn't a

practice I'd ever be involved in. It was just asking for unnecessary drama,

considering gold diggers weren't exactly the most mature of people.

Besides, my wife had too much self respect to tolerate me stepping out on her.

Not that I'd want to, anyway. Why go out for fast food when you have the perfect

meal waiting at home?

"Your father always said you were an over-achiever," I said.

He shrugged. "It's all about the numbers game for me. I try not to get attached."

Numbers. That was certainly something I could appreciate. Maybe he knew what

he was doing, after all. "Well, those ladies will have to fare without you tonight," I

said, grabbing my coat. "You're coming with me."

"Come with me."

I followed the officer down the hallway, on edge because of the man's close

proximity. In my world, you weren't supposed to be seen anywhere near a man

in uniform, unless in handcuffs sitting in the back of his car, and even then you

were flirting with danger.

I didn't want to be there. In fact, it was the very last place in the world I wanted

to be, but I had no choice. Carlisle was certainly in no condition to do it. He was

too distraught and not in his right mind. He needed Esme, so she couldn't do it.

There was nobody else. Only me.

He led me into a small room with a large window that gave a view of an adjoining

room. It looked like a science lab, with scales and chemicals and trays and tables,

but it was much more than that. It was a room very few of us saw alive, but we'd

all be subjected to upon our death.

The morgue.

I paused in front of the window and he stood beside me, motioning to a man in

scrubs and a lab coat inside the other room. He pushed a metal table closer to us,

grasping a hold of the sheet covering it. At the officer's nod, the man pulled the

sheet back.

She looked just like she was sleeping.

Her wound wasn't visible from the angle I was standing, but I knew what it

looked like from experience. There would be a hole on the back of her head about

the size of a quarter, partially concealed by her hair. From the outside it wouldn't

look so bad, but the damage to the brain was irreparable. She would've died

instantly. No pain. No suffering.

No, the suffering was for those she left behind.

Both men turned to me and I nodded. "That's her."

"Name?" the officer asked. He knew her name, but I supposed for verification

purposes he needed me to say it out loud.

"Cullen," I replied. "Elizabeth Cullen."

"Middle name?"

"I don't think she has one."

"Do you know her maiden name?"

I shook my head, my gaze still focused through the window. "I'm not sure."

"Her date of birth?"

I watched as the man in the other room covered her with the sheet once more

before wheeling her away. It was the last time I'd ever see her, I realized. I

wasn't sure how I felt about that. "Sometime in March, I believe."

"March of what year? How old is she?"

I turned in his direction, seeing he was eyeing me peculiarly. "She's in her

thirties."

The officer jotted some notes down as he shook his head. "You know, for being

her family, you sure don't know much about her."

I stared at him, realizing exactly how right he was.

II - Cut to the Chase

April 1982

18 years old

Chicago, IL

"Alec!"

I quickly turned toward the sound of my name, seeing Esme approaching. It was

just after dark on a Friday night and I was standing in the downstairs hallway at

the Cullen residence. Esme's father, Antonio, had sent me out to handle some

business and asked me to stop by afterward for a talk. There were other places I

would've rather been (like at home with a bottle of scotch) but when the Boss

called you in, you had to come in.

"Ms. Cullen," I said politely, nodding to her in greeting. Besides a few brief

glances in passing while in public, it was the first time I'd encountered her since

moving to Chicago a few months ago.

"Esme," she said, her voice suddenly stern.

"Excuse me?"

"My name is Esme."

I gave her a strange look. Why was she introducing herself? "I know your name."

"Do you?" she asked, raising her eyebrows curiously. "Because I'm pretty sure

you just called me Ms. Cullen, and that isn't it."

I smiled guiltily when I realized what she was saying. "Force of habit."

"Well, habit or not, that's no way to greet a friend."

Friend. It was a title in my world that was reserved for made men. The word

seemed foreign coming from her. Was that what she was - my friend?

Before I could even consider how it was real friends were supposed to greet each

other, she rushed toward me. I started to hold out my hand, figuring I could just

shake hers, but it was at that moment that I spotted the blood.

Blood. There was blood on my hands. I wasn't even sure who it belonged to.

I quickly shoved them in my pockets but she didn't seem to notice my reaction as

she wrapped her arms around me in a hug. I could feel her warmth through her

clothes and smell her perfume, the scent making me dizzy. My heart started

pounding at a rapid pace and my chest tightened. My throat felt like it was

closing up. Breathing was difficult. My skin tingled. I nearly swayed.

Was I having an allergic reaction?

She pulled away from me after a second, smiling brightly. Her radiant expression

did nothing to help my condition, my legs going weak. I wanted to tell her to call

911, but no words would come out. I was stunned. Speechless.

Stunned speechless. What was wrong with me?

"You look good," she said, brushing at my suit coat and straightening my tie. It

was oddly... intimate. "Bigger. Firmer."

Her skin flushed as she spoke. She was embarrassed, although I wasn't sure

why. Those had been compliments as far as I was aware.

"You, too," I managed to say. She looked at me peculiarly, almost like I'd insulted

her. "Good, I mean. Not bigger or firmer. Although, well, you are certainly

bigger."

The look didn't leave her face, instead deepening. It wasn't coming out right. "In

the good way," I explained. Was there a good way to tell a woman she was

bigger? "You're bigger in the right places."

She stared at me with shock and even I recognized how completely wrong that

sounded. Instinctively, almost as if some God-given male gene was triggered into

action, my eyes darted directly to her chest. Definitely bigger.

That was definitely not something friends were supposed to do.

I caught myself immediately and looked back away, but not quick enough. She'd

caught me. "So you like my, uh, bigger places?" she asked, amused.

"Yes," I replied, the answer was true but sounded horrible verbalized. She was

the Boss's daughter. What was I doing? "Wait, no."

The offended look returned. That wasn't good. I started to try to cover for myself

but she cut me off with a laugh. "You should probably just stop," she said. "Your

mouth seems determined to get you in trouble."

There was a lot that would get me in trouble in my life, but my mouth was the

least of my concerns.

I nodded anyway. "I believe you're right."

"Of course I am," she said with a wink. "You ought to get used to that fact."

I laughed, glad she wasn't angry. "I'll try."

"That's all we can do," she said. "Try."

She was certainly a far cry from her father. He always said there was no trying,

only doing. Failure was for the weak. To survive, you had to succeed. No

exceptions.

Was he wrong? Were there exceptions?

"So, what are you doing here?" she asked, glancing around the room. I figured it

probably looked strange, me standing alone in the middle of her hallway.

"Business. I was just waiting on your father," I replied. "You?"

"What am I doing here?" she asked, the amused look returning. "I live here, Alec.

You know that."

"Oh," I said, realizing what I'd asked her. It was confusing. I was completely

flustered, barely able to form thoughts. Everything seemed foggy.

Maybe it wasn't an allergic reaction. Maybe I was having a stroke.

I just stood there, unsure of what to say, and she started laughing. "You're cute,"

she said, patting my cheek lightly. "It's good to see you."

I'd been called a lot of things in my life - cold, calculating and even crazy. But

cute? That wasn't one of them. "It's good to see you, too, Esme."

Present Day

Las Vegas, NV

An hour after Edward's phone call we were on a private jet leaving Chicago,

landing in Las Vegas three hours later. It was a warm night, the sky pitch black,

but the darkness was overpowered by the bright lights of the city. The place was

alive with excitement, thousands of people still wandering the streets despite the

time. It was the city that never slept, most of the bars and casinos open twentyfour

hours a day.

"Do we do a lot of business down here?" Benjamin asked, staring out the side

window of the black Mercedes I'd rented. "I never knew we moved operations to

Vegas."

"The mob created Las Vegas," I said, shaking my head. The ignorance of our

younger generation was infuriating. "Lucky Luciano, Meyer Lansky, Bugsy

Siegel... they made this place after banking millions gambling in Cuba. Chicago

moved in, built some more casinos, and it grew from there. The government's

tried to force us out a few times, but we've managed to keep a presence."

"Wow, so all of this was conceived by gangsters?"

I gritted my teeth. Gangsters. I hated the term. "Well, we certainly didn't come

up with the concept of quickie wedding chapels, but yes. Stardust, Freemont,

Haceinda... all ours at one point. Caesar's Palace was built with the money Jimmy

Hoffa skimmed from the Teamsters Union."

"Nice."

Nice wasn't exactly a term I'd use, considering it ultimately led to Bugsy Siegel

being shot in the head and Jimmy Hoffa vanishing into thin air, but I supposed it

was all relative. You make your bed, you lie in it.

I parked the car on Willis Street, a few blocks from the club, and Benjamin

followed me into a local night spot we controlled. There were quite a few people

inside, the place packed with patrons still partying the night away. Security at the

door nodded as I passed, not bothering to check my identification, and one of the

managers scampered to help as soon as I stepped inside. "Mr. Evanson, it's

a...uh...surprise to see you," he stammered. He was nervous. Having the Boss

show up at your business unannounced wasn't something anyone enjoyed...

especially when the Boss was me. "Can I get you something? Everything's on the

house, of course."

I shook my head. "I'm just here to see someone."

"Ah, Edward Cullen? He's over at the bar."

My bad mood intensified. Edward and bar were two words that didn't belong in a

sentence together. Ever.

I started toward the area the manager pointed me in, immediately spotting my

nephew sitting on a stool by himself. He held a small glass filled with a pisscolored

liquid, his eyes fixated on the bar as he took small sips of the drink. He

appeared to be in rough shape, fidgeting nervously. His hair was sticking up and

his black suit was wrinkled, the green tie loose and barely knotted around his

neck. He clearly hadn't shaved in about a week, stubble covering his jaw. I

glanced down at his feet, cringing when I saw the dingy black Nike sneakers. He,

obviously, hadn't been expecting to see me when he left the house this morning.

He had tried, given he wore a tie, but he'd failed. Miserably.

"And what, exactly, are you drinking?" I asked, sparing my usual greeting as I

slid onto the stool beside him. He glanced at me quickly, apprehensive.

"Red Bull and Vodka," he replied, laughing dryly as he turned back to his drink.

"Without the Vodka, of course."

"Wouldn't that just be Red Bull, then?"

"You'd think, but the motherfucker behind the bar said they don't sell just Red

Bull, that I had to order a virgin Red Bull and Vodka," he said, finishing the drink.

"It's a fucking rip off. He charged me ten dollars for the shit."

I looked at him incredulously. "You paid for it?"

"Yeah. I guess he's new here, I don't know. He said pay me, so I fucking paid

him. I wasn't going to fight with him on it."

"No, you'd much rather just whine about it," I said, shaking my head. Edward

could be such a pushover. People in the organization fought to death for power

and he didn't even utilize the little he already had.

Motioning for the bartender, I pushed Edward's empty glass away. "What can I

get for you?" the man asked, raising his eyebrows questioningly. He was young,

early twenties, with blond hair and blue eyes. German descent more than likely.

Definitely not Italian.

"Red Bull," I said.

"Another Vod-bomb? Red Bull and Vodka?"

"Did I ask for that? I said I want a Red Bull."

"Uh, technically we don't sell..."

"Do you know who I am?" I asked, cutting him off before he could finish his

sentence.

He hesitated, looking at me as if he was trying to place my face. I was probably

vaguely familiar to him, considering I was to most. Like Capone, Gotti, Columbo,

Gambino... we were innately recognizable, even if they didn't realize why. "No."

"Well, remember me," I said. "Because if you don't go get me a Red Bull right

now, the next time you see my face, it'll be the last thing you ever see. Capisce?"

Frightened, he nodded and backed away slowly. He grabbed a can of Red Bull

from a cooler under the bar and opened it, sitting it down in front of me. I took a

sip and cringed from the repulsive taste. It didn't just look like piss. "How can you

drink this?" I asked, holding it out to Edward.

He shrugged. "It does what it's supposed to."

"It gives you wings," Benjamin chimed in from behind us. I'd nearly forgotten

he'd come along and judging by Edward's reaction, he hadn't noticed Benjamin's

presence at all. He swung around quickly, defensively, and eyed Benjamin warily.

"What the fuck?"

I clasped Edward's shoulder. "Your senses need fine-tuning. You're a little off

your game."

"Yeah, well, it's late and I'm tired. I'd rather be at home."

"And you think I wouldn't?" I asked. "I'm not on vacation here. This isn't a social

call. "

"I know, I..."

"That's precisely why we're in this predicament, anyway," I continued, cutting off

his rambling before he could even get started. He still didn't seem to know when

to keep his mouth shut. "You can't even see what's going on right in front of you.

Are you going blind, or is it simply ignorance? I can get you glasses, but stupidity

isn't as easily fixed."

Edward went rigid as Benjamin stifled a laugh. I glared at him, finding nothing

humorous about the situation, and he straightened himself out quickly.

"I made a mistake," Edward said through clenched teeth. "It won't happen

again."

"I know it won't," I said. It was a lie. A big lie. It would happen again. It didn't

matter what he did or how hard he worked, these situations would arise. It was

impossible to have complete control over everything. People were opportunistic

and conniving. There would always be someone trying to get one over on us, and

sometimes they'd succeed. It was simply a fact of life. Criminals didn't like to

follow rules or listen to authority. If they did, they wouldn't be criminals.

I wouldn't tell him that, though. While I didn't expect perfection, I did expect him

to strive for it.

Edward chugged the rest of the second Red Bull before standing up. He ran his

hands down his face, still eyeing Benjamin carefully. They hadn't met before and,

like usual, Edward was suspicious.

"Edward Cullen, Benjamin Mancini," I casually introduced them as I stood.

"Nice to finally meet you," Benjamin said. Edward nodded, his demeanor not

shifting. Still guarded. It was the one thing about Edward that I thought served

him well. He was territorial and didn't like having his space invaded by anyone he

didn't invite inside. I knew why he was that way and couldn't say I blamed him.

I'd be protective, too, if I were in his shoes.

"Come on, let's get this sorted out," I said, walking away.

Antonio appeared, his footsteps faltering when he saw me and Esme standing

together. She was still touching me and quickly dropped her hand, taking a step

to the side when he gave us a peculiar look. He stared me down for a second,

before turning to her and quirking an eyebrow. "Don't you have a date tonight,

honey?"

Date? The moment the word registered I turned back to Esme. She looked nice in

a pair of jeans and a sweater, but she certainly wasn't dressed up. She had on

tennis shoes. What kind of date was she going on?

"Yes, he'll be here soon," she replied with a smile. "I should probably finish

getting ready."

She started out of the room, pausing briefly to kiss her father's cheek. After she

was gone he led me to the den and he offered me a drink but I declined, not

wanting to prolong the visit with socializing.

He got down to business, talking about people we knew and dealings we were

involved in, but I couldn't seem to focus. The fact that I was distracted must have

been obvious because after awhile Antonio cleared his throat. "Are you alright,

Evanson?"

"Yes, sir," I replied. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" he asked. "You seem nervous. You're fidgeting."

I glanced down, noticing I'd been wringing my hands together. Me, fidgeting?

That was a first. "I'm just tired, sir."

He nodded as he stared at me, his expression blank. I wasn't sure if he believed

me, but I had no other explanation for him. He said not a word for a minute, the

sudden tense silence putting me more on edge. His gaze was intense, like he was

studying me. Scrutinizing me. Sizing me up.

The sound of the doorbell echoing through the house surprised me and I jumped,

regaining my composure quickly but I was certain he noticed. He didn't move to

answer the door and after a moment it rang a second time, followed by the sound

of footsteps on the stairs.

"You couldn't answer the door?" Esme yelled from the foyer. Her father didn't

respond. He was so fixated on me, I wasn't even sure he'd heard her.

The boy spoke immediately when Esme let him inside. "Damn, you look nice." His

voice was smooth, almost song-like, and she giggled at the sound of it. The hairs

on my neck stood up instantly and I clenched my hands into fists. I instantly

hated him.

She led him into the den where we sat and Antonio finally looked away from me,

his posture relaxing as he turned to his daughter. He eyed the boy briefly, his

smile forced. "Hello."

"This is Andrew," Esme said, motioning toward her date. He was an American,

with shaggy blond hair and blue eyes. He looked like a typical surfer, which was

absurd to me, because Chicago wasn't near the ocean. What was he doing here?

He was all wrong for her and he obviously lacked common sense. "Andrew, this is

my father and Alec, a friend of the family."

There was that word again. Friend. Unlike the first time, however, it didn't settle

well with me.

"Nice to meet you guys," Andrew said casually as he draped his arm over Esme's

shoulder. My heart started pounding forcefully again at the sight, even harder

than before. He was touching her, like she belonged to him. Why was he touching

her?

The intense surge of blood made my skin feel like it was crawling, sickness

brewing in the pit of my stomach. My vision went red and my chest burned, a

voice in the back of my head screaming furiously. Warning. Warning. Warning.

The boy was a threat. He needed to disappear.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was having a heart attack.

"Nice to meet you, too," Antonio said. "You kids have a nice evening."

His nonchalance stunned me and I looked at him, almost horrified. Didn't he

sense it, too? Didn't he feel how thick the air was? Couldn't he see a red flag

when one was raised? What was wrong with him?

"We will," Esme said. Her eyes lingered on me for a moment, almost as if she

expected me to say something, before she took the boy's hand and they exited

the room.

He was touching her again. He needed to stop doing that.

"They met at school," Antonio said once they were gone, likely noticing my

expression. "His family just moved to town."

"And you think it's safe for her to be with someone you know nothing about?"

He shook his head. "I wouldn't say I know nothing about him. His father's a

doctor and his mother's a teacher. They're from Ohio. He has a perfect GPA,

plans to go to Princeton. Never been in trouble. He's perfectly harmless."

Harmless was not the vibe I got from him. On paper he sounded perfect, but my

gut told me differently. "Are we done here, sir?" I asked, needing to get out of

there.

"Yes," he replied. We both stood up and he clasped my shoulder. "Get some rest.

I don't like seeing you so frazzled."

I headed for the front door quickly, feeling his gaze on me as I exited. It didn't

matter what he said, I knew differently. There was something horribly wrong with

the situation. Esme shouldn't have been with that boy. Dozens of reasons why

passed through my mind, from him being in cohorts with our enemies to him

being violent toward women. I imagined her hurt, or in danger. I imagined him

violating her or taking her somewhere she shouldn't be. Violence. Anger. Pain.

Horror. Distress. The emotions were intense.

But never once, in my panic, did jealousy ever come to mind.

"Can I ask a question, Boss?" Benjamin asked as we stepped out onto the street.

"You just fucking did," I heard Edward mutter under his breath. I resisted the

urge to laugh and shot him a pointed look, reminding him to mind his manners.

Benjamin was a friend of ours. If we didn't at least have respect for each other,

we had nothing.

"Go ahead," I said.

"Our dealings down here, is it all legit like the club in Chicago?" he asked. "Is it

just strictly, uh, business, and you're just invested?"

"No. There is a small amount we earn, but the bulk of it comes from other ways."

"How?"

I sighed, too tired to deal with his nosy questions. "Why don't you explain,

Edward?" I suggested. He hesitated as he looked at me, not appearing pleased to

be put on the spot, but he knew better than to refuse. It might have sounded like

a request, but everything that came from my mouth was an order. Simon says.

"We do a lot of skimming," he started. "Take our money before it's counted, so it

isn't taxed. Some of the machines that weigh the coins are calibrated wrong, so it

says there's only nine-hundred there in quarters when it's really a grand. We get

to pocket the other hundred and the gaming commission is none the wiser. We

take chips to cash in later and alter the cash registers to cover it, but mostly it's

computerized. We have it set up so money from each transaction is pushed aside

for us. It's only pennies, really, so they don't even fucking notice when it

happens, but when you have millions of transactions it adds up."

"So it's just basic math, really," Benjamin said, his face lighting up. He quickly

rattled off some sort of mathematical equation that I didn't quite comprehend

before staring at Edward, awaiting a response.

This was going to be interesting.

"I have no idea what the fuck that means," Edward said, looking at him blankly.

"Was that even English?"

Benjamin frowned. "But isn't that your job? What do you do if you don't do the

math?"

There was a flicker in Edward's eyes. Anger. He'd just pegged Benjamin as a

threat and I smiled, despite myself, as Edward's fierceness surfaced. I knew I

brought Benjamin for a reason, and it certainly wasn't for his humor.

"Any fucking machine can do math," Edward said, his tone clipped. "My job is to

make sure no one gets in the way while it does."

Benjamin seemed taken aback by the response and went silent, his eyes darting

to me. "Why don't you go try your hand at a craps table?" I suggested, stopping

in front of a small casino. He brightened back up instantly, turning to look at the

establishment.

"Are you coming in?" he asked.

"I'm not allowed."

His forehead creased from his confusion. "Why not?"

"The Nevada Gaming Commission says so," I replied. "I'm banned for life."

He appeared shocked."What did you do?"

"Nothing," I said. "Just being tied to La Cosa Nostra is enough to get your name

into their little black book."

He looked from me to Edward. "Can you go inside?"

Edward nodded. "For now, anyway."

"They haven't banned any of us in almost a decade, so it seems they're not as

concerned about it anymore," I explained. "But my name got added nearly

twenty years ago, and there's no way to get it off. I know, I've tried."

"That sucks," he said. It sounded like he really meant it.

"It's not so bad," I replied. "I'm not a fan of gambling. I prefer to keep my money

and not throw it away."

"It's not really throwing it away if you know what you're doing," Benjamin said,

shrugging. He seemed to realize what he'd said within a matter of seconds

because he started backtracking. "Not saying you don't know what you're doing,

Boss. I'm just saying it's all about calculated risks, figuring out where the odds

lay. I could make a killing here. Well, I mean, not a killing, I shouldn't have said

that. Definitely not a killing. It's just, since I'm good at numbers..."

"I know," I cut him off. His rambling was worse than Edward's sometimes. "So,

go try your hand at it while we deal with business."

"I shouldn't," he said, still hesitating. "I don't even think I have any money on

me."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet, grabbing a hundred dollar bill.

I held it out to him. "Take it."

"I can't take your money, Boss," he said quickly, throwing up his hands

defensively, like I was holding a weapon that could end his life. In a way it was,

considering he knew you didn't mess with my money if you wanted to keep your

head.

Literally.

"You can, and you will," I said, shoving it at him. "I'll be back here in a few hours.

I expect my money back with two-hundred percent interest."

"Yes, sir."

"Didn't know you were bringing fucking Good Will Hunting with you," Edward said

once Benjamin was gone. "And how come he gets to gamble? You always told me

it was against the rules."

"I never said it was against the rules, Edward. I told you gambling was off limits,

and it is," I explained. "Benjamin doesn't have an addictive personality. You do.

You gambling is a disaster waiting to happen."

He didn't like my response, but he was much too smart to verbalize it. "So, are

we going to the club or what? We're wasting time just standing here," he said

after a moment of silence, running a hand through his hair. It stuck up further

and pieces fell into his eyes, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Did you look in the mirror this morning?" I asked. He stared at me like I'd spoke

in a language he didn't understand.

"I always look in the mirror," he replied. "Why?"

"I'm just curious if you're aware of how you look," I said. "I think I saw a

homeless man a few blocks down that was more put together than you."

"I don't look that bad," he said defensively, fiddling with his tie. He was nervous

again and I could tell he suspected he did look that bad, but at least he knew

enough to pretend otherwise. Edward Cullen was nothing if not tenacious.

"You should shave," I said. "And while you're at it, you need a haircut. You're

beginning to look like one of those horrid little Troll dolls that Chelsea collects."

He looked at me blankly before a chuckle escaped his throat. "How is Chelsea,

anyway?"

I shook my head. "I'm not going to discuss my family with you here."

"Oh, come on. She's my family, too," he said. "She's, like, my little cousin."

"If you care to know how she's doing, maybe you should ask her. Esme says it's

been awhile since she's heard from you."

"Bella just called yesterday."

"Yes, Isabella called," I said. "Last I checked, Isabella wasn't you."

"I guess you're right," he said, his brow furrowing. "I can't even fucking

remember the last time I called."

"Well, you should call," I said once more. "Chelsea would be happy. She's just as

enamored with you as ever. In fact, she'd probably want to add you to her

collection if she saw you right now."

Another reason I looked out for Edward - Chelsea would be crushed if he ended

up hurt. I promised to take care of the child. I couldn't let her heart be broken...

by anyone.

He smirked, running his hand through his hair yet again. This time he grabbed

onto a hand full and tugged. "I'll make an appointment to get it cut," he

conceded.

"Good," I said. I knew he would. "And speaking of appointments, you're delaying

one right now, so come on. We have things to do. We're wasting time just

standing here."

I turned to walk away and heard him groan, muttering under his breath, "I just

fucking said that."

"There comes a time, thief, when the jewels cease to sparkle, when the gold

loses its luster, when the throne room becomes a prison, and all that is left is a

father's love for his child."

The screen lit up with the film, the sound rumbling through the place from little

speakers situated on the dozens of cars parked around the lot. I shook my head,

aggravated, and tried to ignore it. Of all the places in the world, all the things

they could've done, he took her to the drive-in. And to see a movie as ridiculous

as Conan the Barbarian, at that.

He didn't deserve her. She was better than this.

I parked along the back, my car partially hidden, but close enough that I could

get a good look at the dingy,little, gray Volkswagen Rabbit. I could see the two of

them inside of it, eating popcorn and drinking soda as they watched the film. He

hadn't even treated her to dinner. She needed more.

I looked at the clock. It was only a few minutes past ten but it felt like days had

passed since the movie began. Didn't she have a curfew? How long was this

going to go on?

I glanced back up at the car and froze, my blood running cold at the sight that

met me. He had his arm over her shoulder again and she was leaning toward

him. My chest ached, my heart pounding hard. I felt dizzy again. I wanted to

crawl out of my own skin.

And then she kissed him. Her mouth, those lips that had spoken my name just

hours before, touched his. His filthy, rotten mouth was on her. All composure

slipped away at that moment, every ounce of self-control I had gone. I flung

open my driver's side door and jumped out, my hand instantly going to my

waistband where my gun was holstered. It didn't matter how many people were

there or what I had to do to stop it… he was never going to touch her again.

I took a few steps in their direction, grasping my gun, and was about to pull it out

when someone called my name. The sound of it stalled me and for a moment my

senses cleared, just long enough for me to realize what I was doing.

I turned toward the source of the voice, seeing Carlisle standing a few feet away.

He was eyeing me suspiciously, his gaze shifting to my hand. He seemed to

realize exactly what I was going for because his eyes immediately darted toward

the car his sister was in.

"Did my father send you?" he asked, sounding panicked. I shook my head,

quickly removing my hand.

"No," I replied. "I'm here on my own."

"Oh," he said. "What are you even doing here?"

"Shouldn't I ask you that?" I asked. "Aren't you a little young to be out here at

this time?"

My question bothered him. He narrowed his eyes, his cheeks turning red. "I'm not

much younger than you," he said. "I'm sixteen now."

"Well, does your father know you're out here?" I asked.

"Does he know you're here, Alec?"

I stared at him as that question sunk in and he raised his eyebrows, a smirk

tugging the corner of his lips. He knew he had me. He could be a cocky little punk

when he wanted to be. "You should go home," I said, "before I decide to tell your

father."

He nodded, still smirking. "You, too," he said, taking a few steps back. "And for

the record, I don't like that boy either, but I don't think killing him is going to

help. It might make her kind of mad. If you like my sister, just ask her out. At

least it would be less messy... I think, anyway."

I watched as he walked away before glancing back at the car Esme was in. She

had pulled away from the boy and was sitting straight in her seat, her attention

focused back on the movie. The ache in my chest lessened, a bit of relief washing

through me that he was no longer touching her.

Was that what I wanted? To date her?

III - Go Out on a Limb

May 1982

18 years old

Chicago, IL

I stood along the street near the school, leaning back against my parked car with

my arms crossed over my chest. It was a warm afternoon thanks to a surprising

heat wave and I was sweating in my suit from the sun shining brightly above.

Classes had just let out and students swarmed the streets on their way home. It

was a Friday and I could hear their excitement that the weekend was here. They

were deep in conversation about things I knew very little about, like games and

parties and dates.

Dates. I wasn't sure, but I suspected I might've started sweating even more at

the mention of the word.

Girls strolled by, wearing skimpy clothing, with guys right on their heels. Some of

the guys were already going shirtless, relishing in the sun, and there I stood,

dressed as usual - plain black suit, black tie, black shoes. Usually I fit in with my

clothes, falling into the background, but today I stuck out like a sore thumb.

At least, I was pretty sure I did, considering the looks I kept getting.

Everyone blended together in a sea of people and I was reconsidering my idea

when the sound of familiar laughter reached my ears. I turned in the direction it

came from, stunned when I saw her. She was wearing a pair of extremely short

shorts, barely covering her behind, and a tight white tank top. It was cut short,

showing her navel, and the material was so thin I could see her bra through it.

I was equal parts awestruck, aroused and downright horrified. What was she

thinking? Did her father know she went into public like that?

The moment she glanced in my direction and caught my eye, I suspected he

didn't. She looked almost ashamed. Nervous. Petrified.

"Alec? What are you doing here?"

And suddenly, in that instant, I was nervous, too. I rarely second-guessed

myself, but now was one of those moments. "I needed to speak with you."

Her fear intensified. "Is something wrong? Did something happen? Oh God, it

isn't Dad, is it?"

Her panic surprised me and I realized at that moment how my presence must

have seemed. She worried I was there to deliver bad news, much like how the

police sent an officer to the house when there was a death. She stared at me like

I was the Grimm Reaper, coming to ruin her life.

This definitely wasn't going as I'd planned it would.

"Your father's fine," I said quickly, wanting to reassure her. "It's nothing bad,

don't worry."

"Oh," she said, immediately relaxing, and I wondered if maybe I shouldn't have

said that. Was I lying? What if she thought it was a bad thing? "So, what's up?"

"I was just wondering if you'd like to do something."

Her brow furrowed. "What?"

What? I hadn't exactly figured that out. "Uh, just something," I said, "with me."

"With you?" she asked, sounding confused. "Like what?"

"Anything," I replied, shrugging. Why was she making it so complicated? "If you

would rather not, I understand. I already asked your father and he gave me his

blessing, if that matters."

"Blessing for what?" The moment she asked that it seemed to dawn on her what I

meant. Her eyes widened and she stared at me with shock. "You mean us do

something, like, together?"

"Yes."

"Alec Michael Evanson, are you asking me out on a date?"

The word came out as a squeal and I nodded hesitantly, unsure of what her

reaction meant. Was she sweating at the word, too? "Yes, I'd like to take you on

one of those."

I held my breath as I waited for her to respond. I figured she'd have to think

about it. I even prepared myself for an angry "no". But what I hadn't expected

was for her to break into laughter.

"Did you really ask my Dad permission to date me?"

"Yes, I did."

"You know that's unnecessary, right? I mean, it's really sweet, but I'm eighteen.

I'm an adult now," she said. "We don't need his permission."

She had it wrong. She may not have needed his permission, but I did. One of the

most important rules in our world - you didn't mess with a made man's family,

especially the Boss's.

Without his blessing, I would've been violating a Borgata commandment, and our

God wasn't very forgiving. No Hail Mary's would save me from his wrath.

"So, is it a 'no'?" I asked. The delay in answer was frustrating. I wished she'd just

put me out of my misery.

"No."

"Okay," I said. "I should let you go on your way. It was good to see you."

I turned to walk away and she grabbed a hold of my arm to stop me, once again

laughing. "Where are you going? I thought you wanted to do something?"

My brow furrowed. "But you said 'no'."

"I said 'no', it wasn't a 'no'," she replied, rolling her eyes as if her answer

should've been obvious. "That means it's a 'yes'."

Present Day

Las Vegas, NV

You gotta squeeze a little, squeeze a little

Tease a little more

Easy operator come a knockin' on my door

Sometime, anytime, sugar me sweet

Little miss innocent sugar me, yeah

The walls of the club rattled from the sheer volume of the music, my heading

pounding to the beat of the old eighties tune. It baffled me that it remained

popular amongst this crowd after over two decades. I was quite sure the song

played the very first time I set foot in one of these establishments.

I glanced at Edward as we bypassed security. He was mouthing the lyrics. "This

song was released before you were even born," I pointed out.

"So?" he replied. "That Frank Sinatra shit you listen to came out before you were

born."

"Don't call Frank Sinatra shit," I said. Edward looked at me with surprise as the

curse slipped from my lips. It wasn't something he heard often. "Besides, he's an

exception. He's an Italian-American. He was one of us. His songs are classics.

This noise isn't."

"Maybe so, but 'Pour Some Sugar on Me' has its benefits," Edward said. "I'm not

sure bitches can do that to 'Summer Winds'."

He motioned toward the front stage where a bare-chested woman in a pink thong

and clear platform shoes hung upside down on a pole. One stripper was licking

the woman's nipples, while another literally poured sugar on them.

"Valid point," I replied, looking back away from the show. "But you shouldn't use

that word, nor should you even be looking at them. You're a married man now.

What would your wife think?"

He cut his eyes at me. "And I'm not talking to you about my family here."

I smiled. "Touché."

Despite the fact that it was late, the place was busy. Men packed the tables near

the stage, practically salivating as they stuffed dollar bills in g-strings, while

others sat at the bar, drinking and conversing. The air smelled of stale cigar

smoke and sex, the combination nauseating.

A topless waitress walked past us, holding an empty tray as she made her way to

the bar. She paused and thumbed my suit coat with her free hand. "Oh my,

aren't you good looking!"

I stared at her. She had bleached blonde hair, a fake tan and a plastic face. I

resisted the urge to say, 'It's a pity you aren't.'

"Can I get you something, Sugar?" she asked after a moment of no reaction from

me. She was probably seeking some sort of approval, but she was looking in the

wrong place for it. "Beer? Liquor? Lap dance?"

"Happy ending," Edward muttered to himself, but he wasn't as quiet as he

thought. The woman's attention shifted, a smile on her lips.

"I think that could be arranged," she said, zeroing in on him with dollar signs in

her eyes. I could practically feel the heat of her lust. It made my skin crawl.

"Can it?" I asked curiously. Were they truly so blatant about selling sex that a

waitress doubled as a pimp?

She smiled mischievously. It was the type of smile I knew my wife would knock

off of the woman's face if she were there. "For someone as handsome as you?

Absolutely."

"Sounds..." I hesitated, looking for the right word. Disgusting? Dangerous? Dirty?

I sighed, taking a hint from Benjamin. Sarcasm worked well in these situations.

"...nice."

"It sure will be," she said. "Will it be just you, or will your friend here be joining

us?"

She motioned toward Edward and he coughed, choking on thin air. "This isn't

really his scene," I said, using his words. The woman nodded as if she understood

the notion, when she knew as well as I did that it was bullshit. Sticchio was every

man's scene... unless, of course, it wasn't. But in my nephew's case, I was quite

certain he didn't play on the other side of the fence. At all.

"I'll be right back," the woman said with a wink before strolling over to the bar. I

certainly didn't intend to wait on her.

Edward shook his head. "Kinky bitch."

"What did I say about you using that word?"

He didn't think I saw, but I knew he rolled his eyes. "She just offered to take us

both for cash. I think I described her perfectly."

"You ought to be respectful," I said. "Prostitutes aren't much different from us."

The look on his face suggested he didn't believe me. "They're selling pussy. How

is that even remotely close to what we do?"

"They sell what they have to get what they don't," I said, shrugging. "We take

what we don't and sell it to get what we have. It's a delicate balance. It all works

out in the end."

"Are you seriously talking philosophy to me?" he asked. "Who are you now,

Pluto?"

I glanced at him, figuring he had to be joking, but hisexpression was completely

serious. "Do I look philosophical to you?" I asked. "I just understand the concept

of necessary evils, Edward. We do what we have to do to make it. Some give,

while others of us take. Just because they're one thing, doesn't mean that's all

they are. You of all people should get that, given who you married."

He stood silently, pondering my words. When I woke up this morning, I certainly

hadn't expected to spend my night in a strip club with my nephew, teaching him

respect for prostitutes. I was sure my wife would've called this a bonding

moment, but it felt absurd.

"And it's Plato, not Pluto," I continued. "I hope you weren't intending to compare

me to a cartoon dog."

He laughed when it struck him what he'd said. "Or a planet."

"Pluto isn't a planet anymore. It got demoted."

"Fuck that," he said. "It's still a planet."

I shook my head. It was late, and I was starting to run low on patience. What

were we even talking about? "You're wasting my time again, cacasenno," I said.

"And watch your language before you get demoted. Now, come on."

I started through the club and he followed behind me silently. Security stepped in

front of us when we reached the hallway leading toward the back VIP rooms and I

pushed my coat aside, showing him a brief flash of my holstered gun. He froze,

panic in his eyes. "I'm just here to speak business with the manager."

I counted down in my head. 10...9...8...7...6... By the time I hit 5, realization

seemed to dawn on him and he took a step back instinctively. Thankfully so,

considering when the countdown ran out, so would his luck. "Yes, sir," he said.

"He's, uh, in his office. End of the hallway."

He stepped aside hesitantly. He knew he wasn't supposed to let anyone pass

unless they'd paid, but he also knew precisely who I was. He might have lost his

job disregarding club rules, but he'd lose his life by getting in my way.

Like I said, I could respect a man who was smart enough to accept the lesser of

two evils.

I walked straight down the hall toward the back office, passing at least a dozen

rooms along the way. Some were open but at least half had the doors closed,

while more strippers lingered in the hallway outside. Blockers, they called them.

Look-outs. Paid to watch, to make sure no one barged in on the sexual acts. It

was blatantly obvious to me what was going on in the club and my anger grew

with every step I took. If Edward had just taken ten minutes out of his day to

step inside the place, he would've seen it and known what was happening.

I shoved open the office door and it slammed against the wall, the noise barely

registering over the sound of the music. The manager, a balding man with dark

hair and glasses, jumped up from behind his desk. Caught off guard, the moment

he saw me he slammed his laptop closed and started stammering.

"Mr. Evanson, uh, hello, it's a, uh, pleasure to see you!" He started around the

desk, his hand extended, but I turned away from him. I focused my attention on

a bookshelf against the wall and he stopped in his tracks, dropping his hand.

"I'm sure it is," I said, picking up a picture frame from the middle shelf. It was a

photograph of his daughter, a teenage girl with long brown hair and a nose too

big for her face. I'd met her once when I first invested in her father's business

and recalled she was a quiet girl who lived with her mother and went to a private

school. She had to be around fifteen now. Maybe older.

"Is there something I can help you with?" he asked. I could hear his nerves, a

slight tremor to his words. He knew he was in deep. I didn't respond, figuring I'd

let him stew in his fear for a moment.

I turned the frame over and popped the back off of it. I removed the picture

before sitting the frame back on the shelf where I got it, turning toward him to

make sure he saw I had it. I noticed the name Lucy was written on the back of

the photograph in ink as I folded it and slid it into my coat pocket.

After strolling around his office for a moment, I stopped behind his desk. I eyed

him intently as I opened the laptop back up. The password prompt greeted me

right away. "Password?" I asked.

No answer. He was terrified. I saw his eyes shift to the discarded frame, telling

me all I needed to know. People weren't as slick as they thought they were.

"Lucy," I said aloud, typing in the girl's name. I hit enter and the laptop came to

life, instantly revealing a sectioned off screen of live video feed from the security

cameras. My eyes scanned the boxes, seeing quite a few unsavory situations on

display.

The manager took a step toward the door, panicking, but Edward quickly shifted

his position to block the man's path. His hand was on his belt, prepared to pull

out his gun if necessary. He'd make a good enforcer if he wasn't so scrawny.

"Do they know you watch?" I asked the manager.

"I, uh... well, I mean..." His evasiveness was annoying. I hated men who couldn't

answer a simple question without stumbling over their words.

"Answer!" I snapped.

"Watch what?"

The question came instantly, the fact that he was going to play ignorant causing

my anger to spike. I came around the desk without a second thought and

grabbed a hold of him, shoving Edward out of the way as I dragged the man

down the hall. He tried to resist and pull away, but he was weak.

The girls in the hall panicked when they saw us and scurried to get out of the

way. I reached one of the closed doors, kicking it as hard as I could. It flew open,

slamming into the wall roughly. The woman inside jumped up from the patron's

lap and ran to the corner of the room, stark naked. The man fumbled with his

pants as he stood up, throwing a used condom on the floor as he yelled about the

disruption. I shoved the manager into the room and drew my weapon, switching

the safety off in the blink of an eye.

"That," I said firmly. "Do they know you sit in your office and watch as they

whore themselves?"

Based on the gasp that came from the stripper, I assumed the answer to that

was 'no'.

I slammed the manager down so his back was pressed against a table as Edward

walked into the room, once again blocking the doorway so no one could leave.

"When I invested in this place, I told you this was off limits," I said, shoving my

gun under his chin. "You said you understood, but it's obvious I didn't make

myself clear. What's it going to take for me to get my point across?"

Fear burned in his eyes, nearly crippling him. "Please!" What he was begging for,

I wasn't sure. Reprieve? Forgiveness? For me to put his sniveling, pathetic self

out of his misery?

I snatched a discarded, half-empty bottle of beer from the table nearby with my

free hand and dumped it on his face. He choked as he inhaled the liquid and

gasped for air. "This stops now. I don't ever want to hear about this happening

again or I will pay your daughter, Lucy, a visit. Do you understand me?"

"Yes!"

I let go of him and took a step back as security rushed into the room, shoving

past Edward and knocking him down. The boy just couldn't catch a break. They

all faltered when they saw the gun in my hand, every single one of them

unarmed. The one we'd encountered earlier lingered by the door and helped

Edward up from the floor, not wanting to be involved.

"It's fine," the manager said quickly, attempting to diffuse the situation. "Just a

misunderstanding."

They looked between him and my gun with disbelief.

I slid the revolver back into my holster and walked right out, the devil on my

shoulder just wishing one of them would be stupid enough to try to stop me.

I kicked in the rest of the doors, interrupting the escapades as I made my way

down the hall. No one looked as Edward and I walked back into the main area

once more. The music was still thumping so loudly from the speakers that they

hadn't even heard the commotion in the back.

She's my cherry pie

Cool drink of water, such a sweet surprise

Tastes so good make a grown man cry

Sweet cherry pie

I shook my head. "They really need to get some new music."

"I'll take some cherry pie," Esme said, closing the menu and smiling at the

middle-aged waitress. "And some chocolate milk. Oh, no! Wait! A chocolate

milkshake. With whipped cream and a cherry please."

The waitress laughed as she jotted Esme's order down before turning to me,

giving me a questioning look. "Just water is fine," I said.

Esme rolled her eyes. "He'll take some cherry pie, too," she interjected. "It won't

kill him. It's made out of fruit."

"Milkshake also?" the waitress asked. I opened my mouth to respond but before I

could get a word out, Esme spoke again.

"No, he doesn't like ice cream. Or chocolate. Or even milk, really. So I guess you

can still bring him the water."

The waitress nodded before walking away and I stared at Esme in shock. "You

remember all that?"

She glanced at me and smiled. "Of course I do," she said, tapping the side of her

head. "I remember everything."

The streets were still bustling when we stepped back outside. I looked at my

watch. 4:23 AM. Or 2:23 AM, really.

"Don't make me come back down here for this, Edward," I said, reaching into my

pocket for the photograph I'd taken. I tore it into a few pieces and walked to the

edge of the sidewalk, dropping it into a sewer grate. Of course I'd never actually

harm the child (not intentionally, anyway), but he didn't need to know that.

"Yes, sir."

"How do you know the place is going to be raided?" I asked. I should've asked

earlier. If it was simply a hunch, I was going to be furious.

"One of LVPD's finest," he replied. "He fed the information to one of our guys,

who passed it along to me."

I eyed him warily. "Do you trust him?"

"Fuck no," he replied right away, looking at me incredulously. His tone struck me

wrong. I wanted nothing more at that moment than to knock the look off of his

face, but I contained myself. He was lucky we were in public.

"The officer has a gambling problem. Owes a loan-shark more than he makes in a

year, not including interest," he explained. I could tell by the tone of his voice

that he knew I was annoyed with him. That, and the fact that he refrained from

saying anything vulgar for once. "The only reason he's still walking around is

because he gives us information."

He frowned as he spoke. I could tell he didn't like thinking about people being

murdered on his watch. Edward's hands were still clean of blood and I knew he

wanted to keep them that way, as unrealistic as it was.

"Just be careful," I warned him. "There's no one more desperate than a dirty cop.

They're the quickest to turn you in to save their own skin."

"I know," he replied. "I know what I'm doing, sir."

I stared at him and found myself actually believing that was true. He seemed

sure of himself, but I just hoped his confidence wasn't faked. After all, he was in

charge down here. If he didn't know what he was doing, the entire thing would

collapse.

"Get some people in here to clean this place out of anything incriminating," I told

him as my cell phone started ringing in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw my

wife's name on the screen.

"Yes?" I answered. Edward strolled a few feet away, leaning back against the

building as he started making calls.

"Where are you?" Esme's voice was gritty. I could tell she'd been asleep. There

was a hint of something else there, though, a bit of panic, and for a brief second

my stomach dropped. I should've called her before I left town.

"Vegas," I replied. "I had to come take care of some things."

She sighed, a dramatic sort of sigh that told me my answer wasn't good enough

for her. "I was worried. I woke up and you still weren't home. You can't do that to

me, Alec."

Esme and I had been married for over twenty-five years and she still hadn't

gotten used to my line of work. Every time I left the house I saw her fears

playing out in her eyes, although she always smiled and pretended everything

was fine. She was a strong woman and I appreciated that about her. She trusted

me completely, even though I probably didn't deserve it after everything I'd done

in my life.

I knew all there was to know about Esme. I knew her favorite color was a deep

shade of red. She secretly loved American food, especially hot dogs, more than

the Italian cuisine our familiesgrew up on. She listened to the BeeGees when she

cleaned and her first crush was on Andy Gibb. She wished she were a few inches

taller, which was pretty much the only reason she ever wore high heels. She'd

always wanted to be a veterinarian, but one that only worked with cats because

she was once bitten by a dog. She was afraid of crickets. She hated thunder.

But as much as I knew Esme, it wasn't until I moved to Chicago, as an adult, that

I finally truly saw her.

Esme had her mother's looks, but besides that she inherited little from her family.

She was compassionate, something both of her parents lacked. Her father was

the Boss at the time and her mother was one of the strictest women I'd ever met.

The fact that both of them approved of me dating their daughter should've been

her first clue to stay as far away from me as possible.

People feared me. They revered me. They respected me. Some envied me, and

even more hated me. But Esme? Esme was the only person to ever really love

me.

Love was something I knew little about. There was none in my family. My parents

had an arrangement, and my sister and I were created simply to keep the

bloodline flowing. That was the extent of it. So the feelings that existed when I

was with Esme were foreign to me. I wasn't an ignorant man, far from it, but

those things didn't exist in my world.

Not until she came into it.

She only knew a fraction of the things I'd done and I sometimes wondered how

she'd feel about me if I told her all of it. Would she still love me if she knew how

many men I'd killed and not lost any sleep over? Could she still love me, for that

matter?

To be frank, I wasn't sure how she loved me as it was. I most certainly didn't

deserve her devotion. But I had it, and because of that I'd fight until the day I

died to be what she needed... even if I undoubtedly would fail, time and time

again.

"It was a spur of the moment thing," I explained. "I didn't mean to worry you."

"I know," she replied. "How's Edward doing?"

"He's alive."

Another dramatic sigh. "That doesn't answer my question," she said. "That just

tells me he's still doing. It doesn't tell me how he's doing."

Ever the technical one. I glanced behind me to ensure Edward couldn't hear

before responding. "He looks as if he hasn't slept in weeks, but he's still

functioning. For now, anyway."

"Did you tell him?" she asked. She didn't have to elaborate. I knew exactly what

she was referring to. It was ridiculous.

"Now isn't a good time."

"When is?"

It was a question she knew I had no answer to, yet she asked anyway. "I need to

go, Bellissima," I said, having no intention of discussing the matter there. "I'll call

you when I'm on my way home."

She let out her third sigh in a minute, the sound washing through me and setting

my nerves more on edge. She was still frustrated. I was heading for a record. "Be

careful," she said, the worry back in her words.

"Always."

I hung up the phone and slipped it into my pocket as Edward approached.

"They're on their way," he said, eyeing me warily. "Ten, twenty minutes at most."

I nodded and we stood quietly for a moment, the air around us growing awkward.

Under the lights of the street, the bags aligning Edward's eyes seemed more

prominent. His gaze intently scanned the crowds nearby, on guard, assessing for

threats. He was trying hard to be attentive, to impress me, but I could tell he was

growing weary. His eyes burned red and I felt a small twinge of sympathy for

how he was feeling.

"You can go home," I said. "I can oversee this."

I regretted the words the moment they cut through the silence. I was doing what

I couldn't allow myself to do... I was seeing that boy lying in that hospital bed

again, suffering because he was unfairly caught up in our world, when I needed

to see the number. The rank. The Mafioso.

He looked at me with surprise and I could tell he was considering it. He was

desperate to go. He wanted nothing more than to be on the highway out of Las

Vegas, on his way to Blue Diamond, to the sanctuary of his home. Away from the

violence and anger, back to the comfort and security.

Instead of doing just that, however, he shook his head. "I'm alright," he said.

"It's my fault you're here. I should see this through."

I nodded again and turned away from him. Although a lie, his answer was a

relief.

"This was nice," Esme said as I pulled up in front of her house. "Thank you."

"No, thank you," I replied. I'd wanted to take her somewhere respectable, but

she'd insisted on a low-key afternoon. "I'm just glad you said 'yes'."

"Me, too," she said, smiling as she gazed at me. I cut the engine of the car and

started to open my door so I could walk her inside, but she grabbed my arm to

stop me. "Not yet."

I looked at her questioningly. "Something wrong?"

"No. Well, yes." She glanced down at herself and groaned. "I just want a minute.

Dad's home. He's going to be pissed about my clothes. I'm not ready to deal with

him yet."

So I had been right. I knew my Boss quite well. He'd snap knowing she went

outside looking like that, probably even punish me for taking her around in

public. "I thought you were an adult?" I asked. "You don't need his permission for

things."

She narrowed her eyes at me and I smirked. She wasn't as intimidating as she

thought she was. "You think you're funny, don't you?" she asked, pushing me

playfully. "You know how he feels about appearances. 'No daughter of mine will

go in public looking like a streetwalker'."

I laughed at her feeble attempt at an impression. "How did you even get out of

the house looking like that this morning?"

"He was still asleep, so it wasn't that hard," she said, shrugging. "I guess I didn't

plan ahead, though."

"I guess so," I replied. "Next time you should just take a spare set of clothes

along with you, just in case."

She looked at me with surprise. "Wow, you're pretty good at this being sneaky

thing."

"Yeah, it sort of comes along with the job."

"I bet. Do you like it?" she asked. "Your job, I mean."

"It's not so bad," I replied. It was the first time anyone had ever asked me such a

thing. "It keeps me busy and that I like."

She laughed and I stared at her, unsure of what she found so funny about what

I'd said. "You need a life, Alec. You sound like an old man with a nine-to-five

office job. You're only eighteen. Live a little. Take some risks. Break some rules."

My brow furrowed. "You do know what I do for a living, right? I take risks and

break rules every day."

She rolled her eyes. "You do what you're told to do, Alec. You follow orders. I'm

not taking about breaking the law; I'm talking about breaking your own rules.

Step out of your comfort zone."

"I did," I replied. I was starting to get defensive. "I asked you out."

"Yeah, and it took you long enough," she said. "We've known each other for over

a decade. You're slower than a turtle. At this rate, you won't have the guts to ask

me out again until I'm already married."

The mere mention of her marrying someone made my heart race again and I

clenched my hands into fists of rage. There was no way I'd let that happen.

"You're wrong," I said, shaking my head.

"I'm always right," she said. "I told you to get used to it."

"Yeah, well, you're wrong this time," I replied. "I don't just do what people want

me to do."

"Prove it to me," she said. She stared at me, her expression serious. It sounded

like a dare. I never backed down when someone challenged me, and certainly

wasn't going to balk for her.

"Fine," I replied, pushing open my door and climbing out. I walked around to her

side and opened her door, helping her out. "Come on."

"What are we doing?" she asked as I started toward her front door. There was

panic in her voice. Served her right.

"Bending rules," I replied. I got to the front door and pushed it open, glancing

around. The foyer was empty, as was the hallway. In the den I could hear the

television playing.

"Esme, is that you?" Antonio called out. Footsteps started in our direction almost

immediately and she stiffened.

"Go change," I whispered, motioning toward the stairs. She smiled as she bolted

up them and I started toward the den to distract her father.

It was then, as I helped her deceive my Boss in order to try to prove her wrong,

that I realized I was actually proving her right. I was doing exactly what she'd

wanted me to do. She'd pulled my strings and played me like a puppet. She was

calculating. Manipulative. Cunning. She'd managed to get one over on me, and

no one did that. She knew me better than I knew myself.

How did she do that?

She had me wrapped around her finger and I knew it right then. I knew what that

ache in my chest meant. I knew why I acted so irrational about her. I knew why,

despite everything, I couldn't be mad.

I was falling in love.

IV - Zero Tolerance

December 1970

7 years old

Phoenix, AZ

Screaming. Screaming. Screaming.

Why was there always screaming?

"Where's the money? You promised you'd have it and I need it! You're a fucking

liar!"

My mother's voice was so high-pitched I was surprised it didn't shatter our

glasses. I cringed. The sound hurt my ears.

"Is that all you care about? Money?"

My father was calm. He sounded defeated. I honestly couldn't recall a time when

he didn't sound that way, though.

"What, you expect me to care about you? You can't even take care of your

responsibilities! You shove them off on me! I didn't want them, you did!"

Responsibilities, I knew, was her code for me and Jane. I glanced across the table

at my sister. She had her elbow propped up in front of her, her face in the palm

of her left hand. She shifted the food on her plate around with her fork, not

eating any of it. To most people she probably would've looked bored, but I knew

better. Moments like this were the only time Jane ever really showed any

emotion. It was the only time she even seemed human to me. Looking at her,

seeing the hurt in her eyes, I almost felt bad. Even if she was cruel, she was just

a kid.

But then again, so was I, and I didn't let it get to me. If only the screaming would

stop. It was giving me a headache.

"I'm not going to fight with you about this. I told you, I'd get it when I could. I

just sent you money last week. What did you do with it all?"

He'd clearly asked the wrong question because my mother slammed her hands

down on the table, shaking it from the force of the blow. Her wine glass flew

over, spilling the red liquid out as she started screaming even louder. I glanced

beside me, watching as it ran across the wood table and over the side, dripping

onto the floor.

"What did I do with it all? Are you kidding me? You send me pennies and you ask

what I did with it all?"

The wine was starting to pool near my chair, the red liquid seeping into the wood

floor. My mother was going to be furious. Elizabeth would have a hard time

getting it up.

"Pennies? I sent you thousands!"

You'd expect there to be passion behind his words, but it was like he didn't even

care. He knew he wouldn't win the fight. My mother always won, even when she

was wrong.

And usually, she was.

"Two thousand. Two. That's it! That doesn't even cover the bills!"

"It would if you wouldn't live so extravagantly."

Again, wrong thing to say. She shoved her chair back as she stood up and

grabbed her plate, lunging it across the table. Jane and I both ducked out of the

way but my father didn't even flinch as it flew right past him. It smashed against

the wall, the sauce from the lasagna leaving a red smear on the white paint.

Elizabeth was going to have trouble cleaning that up, too.

I suspected she hated these days as much as we did. It always ended up with a

disaster for her to fix.

"You call this extravagant? You're not even a man, you little dick piece of shit!

You're pathetic! I should've never married you!"

Present Day

Las Vegas, NV

The Mafia worked like every other lucrative business. There were processes we

went through, rules and protocol that were followed to ensure things ran

smoothly. Everything was meticulously planned down to the smallest detail, very

little left to chance. Everyone played a role and had their specialties, the things

they benefited us most by doing. The more specialized you were, the more

valuable you were, and the more you profited from your work.

I started out like everyone else - a low ranking soldier, a peon. I equated it to

being a personal assistant. If the Boss wanted something done, you did it - no

questions asked. My first year I did everything and anything required of me, from

running petty errands the entire way up to finally committing murder. It was after

my first hit that my "specialty" was discovered and the calls for food and dry

cleaning ceased, my phone only ringing when the most serious situations arose.

Unlike Edward, or even Carlisle for that matter, I was never coerced into joining

the Mafia. I made the decision willingly, voluntarily, and pursued it. When it came

down to it, it really wasn't a choice for me. I was simply made to be made.

I didn't particularly enjoy the violence. I wasn't the kind of person who got off on

the power, who got a thrill or rush from ending another life. I was just the kind

that could compartmentalize and not feel the adverse emotions that usually went

along with it. We were all good at things. Isabella was good at art. Edward was

good at music. Carlisle had been good at medicine. I just happened to be good at

murder.

Being at the top, now I delegated those things to the ones below me. Instead of

the errand boy, grabbing lunch, I was the CEO, standing back, making sure

everything ran like a well-oiled machine. I was Simon, waiting to catch people

trying to jump out of turn.

Edward and I stood at the corner, watching as the crew he'd called exited the

club after cleaning it out. My visit with the manager was more of a warm-up act.

The actual show didn't happen until after I was through and the 'employees'

came in to do what they did best. They were trained to look for the same things

the police would search for, and it was their responsibility to ensure it would no

longer be there when the police actually arrived.

Time was passing swiftly and I knew the sun would soon be rising in Chicago, but

the sky here was still pitch black. I'd officially been awake for over twenty-four

hours.

"Time change fucking with you?" Edward asked when I looked at my watch for

what was likely the twentieth time in twenty minutes. His voice was sluggish, the

words slurring together as if he'd been drinking. I wondered how long he'd

actually been awake. Likely longer than me.

"Always does," I replied. "Your Red Bull wearing off?"

He smirked slightly. Even his smile was tired. "Always does," he repeated my

words.

"Let's get out of here," I said, clapping him on the shoulder when the last man

exited the club. It wasn't necessary for me to stick around so long, but it had

been awhile since I monitored how efficient the crews down here ran. "It's been a

few hours. I should check on Benjamin."

The reminder of the boy caused Edward to scowl.

The crowd on the streets had finally begun to thin. We started strolling toward

the casino, approaching a small diner along the way with a couple standing in

front of it. At first glance they appeared normal, a boyfriend and girlfriend maybe,

but I pinpointed exactly what they were quickly - a streetwalker and her pimp.

The girl's face was covered in outlandish makeup and her red dress was so small

it barely covered her privates. She was short, around five feet, but had on high

heels that caused her to appear taller. She looked like pretty much every other

streetwalker in the area, nothing substantial about her appearance, but the

longer I gazed at her, the younger she seemed. At first glance I thought

eighteen, but the disproportion of her body suggested she was still going through

puberty. Sixteen maybe.

She had her back pressed against the brick building and the male stood in front

of her, leaning close and speaking quietly. Verbally assaulting her, from the look

on her face. After we passed the male grabbed a hold of her by her hair, yanking

her around the corner and into an alley. Edward froze abruptly at the sight,

confusion and panic playing out in his eyes. He started to turn in that direction

but I stopped him before he could go after them. "What do you think you're

doing?"

"Did you see that? He's hurting her!"

"And?" I asked, raising my eyebrows questioningly. His expression shifted again,

the confusion giving way to anger.

"What the fuck do you mean 'and'? She was just a kid!"

"I saw that," I replied. "But what exactly are you planning to do about it?"

"I'm going to get her the hell away from him."

"What's the point?" I asked. "She'll be right back here again tomorrow night."

He narrowed his eyes. "You can't know that."

"I can and I do," I said. "There are plenty more like her out here, Edward."

He flinched from my words. I knew I sounded cruel, and I didn't like having to

say those things, but it was the truth and sometimes the truth hurt. He lived in

the biggest hub for human trafficking in the country. Hundreds of children were

trafficked in Las Vegas every month. I wasn't sure what he expected. He certainly

couldn't save them all.

"But she..."

"But nothing," I said. It was a word I wished I could wipe from my men's

vocabulary permanently. Nothing irritated me more than when I spoke and the

first word out of their mouth was 'but'. As if I didn't know what I was talking

about. "Mind your own business. Now come on."

I started walking again but Edward stayed frozen in spot. I shot him a pointed

look, silently warning him not to disobey, but he refused to budge and let out a

sigh. A sigh. He had the audacity to sigh at me. What is it with the Cullens and

their dramatics?

Stepping back in his direction, I grabbed the collar of his shirt, yanking him to

me. A few people looked in our direction, startled by the altercation. More

startled, it seemed, than when the man had just done it to the girl. "If you know

what's good for you, you won't test me," I said. "I'm tired and don't have the

energy to deal with you right now."

I could see the dilemma frantically playing out in his eyes as he debated between

turning his back to the girl or risking my wrath. "We don't harm innocents," he

said. "Women and children... it's a commandment."

"We aren't harming her," I said. "He is."

"But..." he started. I raised my eyebrows as he spoke the word and his voice

failed him briefly. "That's, uh, what you all always said about Isabella, too. I

guess I thought turning your back to the shit made you just as guilty."

"So, what, you want to go after the girl? Rescue her? You're willing to risk your

own safety for her? How do you think Isabella would feel if you got hurt and

didn't come home? Don't you think she'd be upset?"

"Yes," he replied. "She'd be just as upset if she knew I did nothing, though. I

mean, that girl... she's just a fucking kid, Alec. She's someone's kid."

I glared at him when those words sunk in, realizing he was trying to appeal to my

paternal side. He was taking a page straight from my wife's playbook, attempting

to get me to see her as a victim. I suddenly wanted to punch him again, but at

the same time had to give him credit. He was learning fast. Well played, Cullen.

My mother grabbed the bottle of wine before storming out of the dining room,

stomping her way to the kitchen. I heard her bark at Elizabeth, who quickly

scurried into the room where we were. She dropped to her hands and knees

beside me on the floor, blotting at the wine with a white towel. I watched her for

a moment, seeing the cloth turning red, and hoped bleach would take it out or

else she would be in even more trouble.

I considered telling her that, but figured it was pointless. It was already done.

She couldn't take it back.

My father sighed, the sound exaggerated. He sat his fork down and I could sense

his gaze on me, but I didn't look up. I didn't need to see his expression to know

there was pity in his eyes, shame for how our lives were, and anger at my

mother. He'd be frowning, biting the corner of his lip. He always did that when he

was deep in thought. I didn't know what there was to think about. The same

thing happened every time. Nothing new about it.

"I have to go, kids," he said quietly, standing up. He stayed in Chicago most of

the time, even had his own place there, and only came to Phoenix every few

weeks. I didn't blame him, really, and part of me was glad for it. At least with

him gone, there wasn't so much screaming.

He walked around the table, pausing briefly beside my chair. "Elizabeth,

sweetheart, you might want to throw that towel away when you're done," he

said. "Bury it deep in the trash. Don't let her see it."

"Yes, sir," she said quietly, her voice shaking. She seemed surprised that he'd

suggest something to help her, but I wasn't. My father was just that kind of

person. He was the opposite of my mother, with her cold nature. He wasn't

exactly nice, but he wasn't heartless. He helped when he could, whereas my

mother couldn't care less about the suffering of others.

I liked to think I was more like my father than my mother, but the fact that I

hadn't told Elizabeth to get rid of the rag suggested otherwise.

My father pulled out his wallet and counted out some cash, sitting it down on the

table beside my plate. "Hold on to this in case you need it," he said before patting

me on the head. He meant it as a warm gesture, but it annoyed me. I pulled

away. I wasn't a puppy. I didn't need to be pet like one.

He started for the door as I slipped the money in my pocket and Jane jumped up,

sprinting right for him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and his footsteps

faltered yet again as he hugged her, patting her back gently. "Don't go," she

said. Her voice was a whisper, but I heard her plea. I was disturbed she'd resort

to begging. It was a waste of time. He wouldn't stay.

He never did.

"If you want to save her, save her. But he'll never let her go willingly," I told

Edward, glancing at the alley where the girl had disappeared with the guy. "You'll

have to kill him."

Edward blanched, just as I knew he would. "I can't..."

"You're right, you can't," I cut him off, not wanting to hear him actually admit it

out loud. "You can't just waltz into someone's territory and disband their business

because you don't like it. Who are you, the morality police?"

"Well, can't I just, I don't know, call the fucking real police?"

I stared at him in disbelief, shocked he had the nerve to suggest such a thing to

me."You want to be a rat?"

The moment I asked the question he seemed to realize he was dangerously close

to stepping over the line. "No, fuck no! I'm just saying..."

"The police don't care about these girls, Edward. To them, they're nothing but

criminals, clogging the streets, selling sex. It's pointless. There's nothing you can

do."

Again, he didn't like my response, and again, he was much too smart to argue

with me. "This is all fucked up," he grumbled.

"It is, but that's life. Now come on, before I pull you into the alley by your hair

and do to you what you can't do to him," I said, shaking my head as I let go of

him. "Ingrate."

I started walking away and he hesitated only briefly before following behind.

"Yeah, well, I love you, too," he muttered. My footsteps faltered as I turned to

look at him, eyeing him peculiarly. It was the first time he'd ever said such a

thing to me, even if it had been sarcastic.

"Love has nothing to do with it," I said.

"Does it ever with you?"

It was a harsh question, albeit a valid one. I had no answer for it.

When we made it back to the casino I called Benjamin's cell phone, but it went

straight to his voicemail without even ringing. "You'll have to go in and get him,"

I told Edward.

"Me?"

"Who else?" I asked. "I certainly can't. You know that."

He clutched onto a handful of hair as he stalked inside. I stood there, quietly

waiting, and the door behind me was shoved open after a few minutes.

Benjamin's voice struck me instantly, followed by the sound of female laughter. I

looked back and saw he had his arm slung around a woman in a blue dress with

curly brown hair, her skin tanned and almost leathery. She was older than him,

closer to my age, and the years showed in her expression.

Benjamin smiled lazily when he saw me standing there, his eyes slanted a bit. I

could tell he'd been drinking and the closer he got to me, the stronger the stench

of liquor was. "Hey, Boss," he said.

I cringed at how he addressed me in front of a stranger. He knew better than

that. "Benjamin," I said, nodding at him. I turned my attention to the woman

with him. "Your services won't be needed tonight."

Her face twisted into anger. I'd clearly offended her. "Who do you think..."

"If you're smart, you won't finish that question," Edward interrupted as he

stepped out of the casino behind them. He briefly glanced in my direction and I

could tell he was annoyed, his eyes shifting to Benjamin with discontent.

The woman stormed off, her high heels clicking angrily against the pavement.

"What were you thinking?" I asked, glaring at Benjamin.

"I don't know, man. I've never had a Cougar before," he slurred, not even looking

at me. He was digging in his pockets and pulling out cash, crumpled up bills

falling to the sidewalk. Unsteady, he swayed a bit as he tried to count out my

share, but he was too inebriated to focus. I lost my temper quickly, snatching all

of the money from his hands and shoving it in my pocket. "Hey!"

"Don't hey me," I snapped, grabbing a hold of him and shoving him back against

the building. "You reek of alcohol and I don't recall telling you that you could

drink."

"I, uh..."

"I didn't tell you to speak, either," I said, cutting him off. "I'm fed up with this

disrespectful behavior and I'm not going to continue to tolerate it. Do you

understand me?"

He opened his mouth to respond but snapped it closed again quickly, thinking

better of it. He nodded and I let go of him, turning away. I caught sight of

Edward standing off to the side, smiling as he watched the exchange in

amusement. "Wipe that smirk off of your face," I said. "I don't find anything

funny about this."

He straightened out his expression right away. "It's just, you know, that's usually

me," he said, motioning toward Benjamin.

"It is," I replied. "I don't know why I surround myself with such incompetence."

Edward didn't respond, but I could see a hint of that smirk threatening to

resurface. He was too cocky for his own good. "I should head home," he said. "I

mean, that is if we're done here."

"We're done," I said. He nodded and started to walk away, but I called his name

to stop him. "Be available in the morning. There's something we should discuss."

His panic flared. "What?"

"If I told you now, speaking tomorrow would be unnecessary," I said, waving him

off. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Yes, sir."

"Where are you, you little bastard?"

She was drunk again. I didn't move, hoping she'd get distracted and go away if I

stayed quiet.

"Your father should've taken you with him, that pathetic son of a bitch. But

noooo, he always leaves you behind for me to deal with," she yelled, her words

slurring together. She'd definitely had the whole bottle of wine, maybe even

more. She was a mean drunk. She was always mean, really, but drunk she was a

monster.

"He doesn't want you little shits, never did. He just forced me to have you to

torture me," she said, letting out a sharp, bitter laugh. "He fucking loves torturing

me. That's all he's good at, you know. He sure can't fuck or take care of what

needs taking care of."

She grew quiet, but I could hear her footsteps as she came down the hallway. I

strained my ears listening. You could never let her sneak up on you when she

was like this.

Once, when I was younger, I woke up in the middle of the night with her standing

over me. She was drunk, swaying unsteadily, and held a pillow in her hands as

she glared at me in the darkness. She told my father she was just checking on

me, making sure I was comfortable, but I think she would've tried to smother me

if she hadn't been caught.

My arm hairs stood up when her footsteps grew closer, pausing in the doorway

behind me. "Are you ignoring me?" she asked. I ignored her, figuring that would

be answer enough, but she didn't accept it. "I asked you a question, Alec Michael.

I expect a goddamn answer."

"No, ma'am," I said quietly.

"Liar," she said, strolling into my room. "Now give it to me."

I looked at her, confused, and saw she had her hand held out. "Give you what?"

"You know what," she snapped, grabbing the back of my chair. She yanked it out

from under the desk and snatched a hold of me, pulling me to my feet. I stood,

frozen, as she started rooting around in my pockets, laughing bitterly when she

found the money. "You're just as bad as your father, keeping money from me."

She shook her head as she stuffed the cash in her shirt before shoving me back

in my chair. She raised her hand like she was going to hit me and I flinched,

throwing my arm up to protect myself. I braced myself for the blow but it never

came, in its place bitter laughter.

"Do the world a favor, Alec," she said as she started to walk away. "Don't have a

family. You'll only fuck them up, just like him."

V - Blessing in Disguise

July 1972

8 years old

Forks, WA

"This is stupid," Jane said, wading in the small river that ran behind the house. It

was early in the morning, our first day in Washington. We'd arrived by plane the

night before with one of my father's friends to stay with the Cullen family. I

guessed they were my father's friends, too. I didn't know. No one really bothered

to explain. "I wish I was at home with Mom."

My mother had refused to come, saying she wouldn't let anything put a damper

on her plans, but I had a feeling she just didn't like the idea of being stuck in the

middle of nowhere with me and Jane. She could barely seem to stomach us in

Phoenix and she didn't even have to see us much there.

The water from the river came up mid-calf, soaking Jane's socks and shoes. "Your

new shoes are getting wet."

She looked at me and rolled her eyes, groaning loudly. "Thanks for stating the

obvious, Sherlock," she said. I shook my head. If it was so obvious to her, why

hadn't she taken them off? "And that's all you have to say? Your new shoes are

getting wet? What's wrong with you?"

"What do you want me to say, Jane?" I asked, annoyed.

"I don't know," she said, groaning again. "Say something!"

"Something," I muttered.

She shot me an evil look. "Smartass," she seethed. She was lucky our mother

wasn't there to hear her speak that way. She would've knocked the teeth right

out of her mouth. "You aren't even sorry, are you? It's your fault we're here in

the first place!"

"How is it my fault?" I asked. I hadn't started the fighting. I hadn't killed anyone

or stolen anything. I didn't say anything bad about anyone else. I had nothing to

do with it.

"Because, you suck," she said matter-of-factly, as if that answer made sense.

"And because Mom doesn't like you."

"She doesn't like anyone."

"She likes me," Jane said defensively. I wanted to laugh, because it was crazy.

Unless Jane was made out of money and laid golden eggs, our mother didn't care

about her.

I didn't bother responding. If blaming me was going to make Jane feel better

about the situation, so be it. She could blame me all she wanted. It wouldn't

change the truth, though.

We were there because no one really wanted us and they never would.

Present Day

Las Vegas, NV

I sat in the stiff red booth in the back of the diner, haphazardly stirring a cup of

coffee. I'd only been there for a few minutes so the drink was still hot, steam

steadily rising from the cup. Benjamin was in a cheap hotel room a few blocks

down, sleeping off the alcohol he'd drank, but I had too much on my mind to

even try to rest.

I took a sip of the coffee, so as to actually appear interested in it. The liquid was

thick and extremely bitter, the taste unbearable. I sat the cup back down and

pushed it away, disgusted.

"How much?" I asked, fighting the urge to cringe. My skin crawled just asking the

question.

The girl shrugged as if she weren't sure herself, greedily eating the sliver of pie

I'd gotten her. From the looks of it, it was the first thing she'd eaten all week.

"$200 an hour," she replied finally. I gaped at her, mortified by her response. The

girls in Vegas went for upwards of a few thousand an hour. I'd never heard of one

going for that low, unless they were drug addicted and desperate.

She seemed to take my expression of disapproval as a sign she was too

expensive and corrected herself. "$150. I can't go less than that."

"That's fine," I replied quickly before she could go any lower. "And for that, you'll

do anything I want?"

She nodded, the fact that my question caused her to grimace not escaping my

notice. I could only imagine the things she'd been asked to do out on the streets.

And for a measly $200, at that.

If my wife knew I was in a dingy diner at six in the morning, negotiating prices

with a teenage prostitute, she'd divorce me. Or slaughter me. Likely both,

actually. She wouldn't even wait for an explanation.

Up close, it was clear that even sixteen had been over estimating the girl's age.

There was a roundness to her features, a softness to her face that hinted she was

more in the area of fourteen. Not old enough to drive a car, yet out in the streets

doing things most grown women wouldn't even dream of doing.

She kept her gaze on her pie as she continued to eat, unable to even look me in

the face as she agreed to sell herself to me for an hour. I was used to people in

her position being uncomfortable around me, but it was usually because they

knew who I was. But she didn't know me from any other man out on the streets.

I was just another John, another pervert, another customer... another number.

I suppose she and I made it through life the same way, when it came down to it.

Detachment.

The waitress walked over, holding a pot of coffee in her hand, and offered me

some more. I waved her off and she walked away without even acknowledging

my company, obviously knowing precisely what she was. The police weren't the

only ones that ignored the girls trapped out on the streets. It seemed most

people did.

"We should, um, you know," the girl said, pushing her empty plate aside when

she finished. She took a drink from the glass of ice water and stood up,

awkwardly tugging on her dress to try to cover more skin. I sighed and stood up,

tossing some bills on the table for a tip before leading the girl out of the diner.

She didn't speak as we made our way down the street, her arms crossed over her

chest, her stance defensive, but her eyes were situated nervously at her feet.

"Here's my car," I said when we reached the rented Mercedes.

"Are you a cop?" she asked suddenly, eyeing the car. "If you are, you have to tell

me. Otherwise it's like, entrapment, or something."

I frowned at her naivety. Her pimp hadn't been very good if he wasn't even smart

enough to explain that was a myth. The only thing they couldn't do was break the

law, which was why we forced our men to do precisely that before initiating. A

cop could lie all he wanted, but he certainly couldn't murder in the line of duty.

"There's nothing in the law that says a police officer can't trick you. It's only

entrapment if you're coerced into doing something illegal that you wouldn't have

otherwise done on your own, so this wouldn't count," I said. "But no, I'm not a

cop."

I got into the car and she hesitated, staring at me with surprise. Likely trying to

decide if I was being truthful or not. She slipped into the passenger side after a

moment, apparently having decided to give me her trust. I started the car up,

pulling away from the curb without another word.

"So, do you want to go to a hotel somewhere or, you know, just park?" she

asked, her voice hesitant. I could tell my behavior was making her uncomfortable

but I couldn't find it in me to pretend to be interested in her in that way. It was

sickening just thinking about it.

I glanced at her and she gave me a forced smile, but I could see the

apprehension. She already regretted getting in the car with me and was worried

how she was going to survive the hour in my presence, even though I'd been

abnormally kind to her. Nothing came without a price and she knew that. She just

feared what she was going to have to endure to pay me back for my generosity.

"I know of a spot," I replied, finally answering her question.

She turned to look out of the window as I drove through the streets, the air in the

car awkward. She fidgeted the ten minutes it took for me to get to the Plaza, her

anxiety irritating me. I breathed a sigh of relief as I pulled into the parking lot of

the Hotel and Casino, parking the car toward the back. She surveyed the massive

building with awe, likely having never been inside of it. She'd actually probably

never been inside of hotel in Las Vegas that didn't charge by the hour, and

unfortunately for her, she wasn't getting her chance tonight either.

"Do you have a name?" I asked.

"Ginger," she said, still staring at the Plaza. The sign atop the building was lit, the

flashing gold and orange lights illuminating her young face. It made her seem

even more child-like.

I shook my head. "Your real name."

She hesitated, turning to me. "Are you sure you're not a cop?"

"I'm certain."

"Ashley, then," she said. "My name's Ashley."

"Do you have a last name, Ashley?"

"Clark."

"And where are you from?"

She sighed. "Can't we just, you know..."

"You said I can have anything I want," I said sharply. "And what I want is to

know where you're from."

"California," she answered. "Bakersfield."

"Do you still have family there?"

A pained look flashed across her face. I'd touched a nerve. "A grandma."

"Is she a good person?"

"Yes," she replied. "She raised us."

"Us?"

"Yeah, my sister, Hannah, and me."

"Ah, you have a sister?" I asked. "Younger or older?"

"She's a year younger, but everyone always thought we were twins," she said,

her face lighting up at my question. I imagined no one ever asked her about her

family anymore. No one cared enough to find out about her life. Sad, really,

especially considering I didn't even really care. "We look just alike."

"So, you're close to her and your grandmother?"

"Yes," she said. "Well, I mean, I was. I haven't really talked to her since I left."

The pained look returned. I was certain there was a story behind that, but one I

frankly had no interest in. I already knew more about her than I'd ever wanted to

know.

"Good," I said, opening my door and getting out of the car. She followed my lead

and went to take a step toward the Plaza, her brow furrowing when she saw me

starting the opposite direction. She stood frozen in spot momentarily before

following behind as I made my way across the street.

"Hi!" I turned around at the sound of the unfamiliar squeaky voice and saw a girl

standing there, watching me and Jane. She looked about our age and had long

brown hair that was braided. She was smiling and looked happy. "I'm Esme."

"Esme? What kind of name is that?" Jane asked, still wading in the river. Her

clothes were soaked from splashing now, too.

Esme shrugged. "The kind my parents gave me."

"Well, it's a stupid name," Jane said. "I'm glad my parents didn't name me that."

Esme seemed taken aback by my sister's response, but it wasn't anything out of

the ordinary. Jane never had a nice thing to say about anything. "Well, what's

your name?"

"Jane," she replied. "Just like Jane Fonda. She's the best."

"I don't like her that much," Esme said, crossing her arms over her chest. "I like

Faye Dunaway."

"You would," Jane snapped. She was angry. I could hear it in her voice and see it

in the way her hands clenched. Jane didn't like people disagreeing with her.

"Because Faye Dunaway's stupid and stupid people like her!"

"Takes one to know one," Esme retorted right away. She wasn't backing down

and Jane looked at her with shock, stunned someone would have the nerve to

talk back to her. People at school were afraid of Jane. Elizabeth was afraid of

Jane. No one ever talked back to her.

"You… you… you… I hate you!" Jane snapped, trudging up the bank of the river.

She stormed right past me and Esme, heading for the house. Her shoes were

caked with mud. I wasn't sure the Cullens would be happy about her getting it all

over their house.

"She's crazy," Esme said once Jane was gone. She turned to me cautiously, I

guess expecting me to defend her.

All I could do was nod.

Like the rest of Las Vegas, the Greyhound terminal was bustling. Buses were

running at all hours, the flow of traffic in and out of the city steady. Ashley didn't

say a word as we weaved through the crowd of people, heading straight for the

ticket agent inside.

"Can I help you, sir?" the lady working asked as I approached the desk.

"I need a ticket to Bakersfield, California."

Ashely gasped behind me. "What?"

I ignored her, watching as the lady punched the destination into her computer.

"We have a bus leaving in a few minutes that goes to Los Angeles with a transfer

to Bakersfield, but the next straight route isn't until later tonight."

"The first option is fine," I replied. She could endure a layover. It was a small

price to pay for a second chance at life. "How much is it?"

"After tax is $49.02," she replied. I nodded, reaching into my pocket and pulling

out a fifty dollar bill. I handed it to the lady and she printed out the ticket, giving

me my change. I thanked her before walking out of the building, Ashley right on

my heels. I stopped, dropping my loose change into the paper cup a homeless

man clutched right outside the door, and she nearly ran into the back of me.

"Why did you just do that?" she asked, panicked. She seemed to be on the verge

of tears, her voice shaking.

"Because you're going home," I said, holding the ticket out to her. She shook her

head frantically, her panic escalating.

"I can't," she said. "He'll kill me!"

I sighed, not in the mood for more dramatics. I'd had enough for one day. "Does

he have a name?"

She recoiled as if I'd slapped her. Human trafficking victims were a lot like Mafiosi

in the sense that their silence was golden. No matter what happened, if you

wanted to survive, you never told on the person at the top. It was the reason

people found the business to be so productive, and why there was very little risk

of criminal prosecution. Victims made reluctant witnesses, and without a victim

there was no case. She may not have liked her life, but she was still so young

that it was preferable to death.

After a moment of deliberation, she started backing away from me. "You're

crazy."

She went to turn around, trying to leave, but I grabbed her arm to stop her.

"Don't want to go to Bakersfield? Fine. Don't go," I said. "I'll still pay you for your

hour and you can be on your way."

Skepticism clouded her face. "Are you toying with me?"

"No, I don't play games," I replied. "If you want to go back to him, go."

She held her hand out to me, as if she were testing me, expecting payment. I

reached into my pocket and grabbed some cash, handing it to her. I didn't even

count it, not caring how much it was. It was nothing but petty change to me in

the grand scheme of things. "I'd give you a ride back to the diner, but I'm afraid

I'm not going that way," I said. "You see, since this ticket is non-refundable, I

figure I might as well use it."

"What? Why?"

I shrugged. "Something to do. You know, maybe I'll run into your little sister

while I'm there. Hannah Clark, right? I'm sure I'll recognize her, since you said

she looks just like you. I might even get to see your grandmother. Pity, really,

what's going to happen to them. How their house is going to catch on fire in the

middle of the night and, by some stroke of bad luck, all of the smoke detectors

will malfunction. Such a tragedy. I can't even imagine what it's like to burn to

death."

She stared at me with horror. I could see the tears in her eyes, her body

trembling. "Why are you saying that? Who are you? What do you want from me?"

"I told you what I wanted. I want you to get on that bus and go home."

"I can't! He'll kill me, I told you!"

"Yes, but if you don't go, I'll kill them."

It was cruel, but I knew it was really the only way. The only thing more important

than her own survival was the survival of the only people in the world who loved

her. The ones who knew the real her.

I knew this, because I was the same way. There was a lot I'd kill for, but only one

thing I'd willingly die for.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Why was I doing it? For Edward? For Isabella? For Chelsea? For Esme? For

Elizabeth? Was I doing it simply for something to do or because, if she were my

family, I hoped someone else would?

I wasn't even sure.

After going back and forth for a few minutes, she finally conceded and we worked

out some things before she boarded the bus. I stood in the parking lot, watching

as it pulled from the station, on its way out of town. I could see her through the

window, huddled to herself and crying. I wondered if any of the tears were

happy, or if it was simply her fear that made her such a mess.

It's didn't really matter, though. She was leaving town. I'd done all I could do -

the rest was up to her. I'd never check up on her, nor would I probably ever think

of her again. She'd be wiped from my mind within days, another person I'd

encountered along the way.

I strolled back across the street to the Mercedes, pulling back out of the parking

lot as I headed across town. When I turned onto Willis Street on my way to the

hotel, the first thing I noticed was the flashing of the sirens. I drove slowly,

cautiously, and watched with interest as I passed the Gentleman's club. It was

surrounded by police cars, a few men in uniform lingering out front. They were

being raided and patrons filtered out, both excited and terrified by the sudden

police presence.

Edward had acted just in time. I wasn't sure whether to be proud of him or

admonish him for cutting it so close.

I pulled into the parking lot of the hotel, parking the car near the front. I cut the

engine before climbing out, slowly making my way to the room. It was left

unlocked so I flung open the hotel room door and it slammed against the wall,

shaking the cheap painting hanging nearby. Benjamin lay snoring in the middle of

the bed, spread eagle on his back and still fully dressed. The noise from my

entrance didn't seem to disturb him a bit so I proceeded to kick the bed, jolting

his sleeping form roughly.

His eyes popped open, panicked. He looked sick. "What the..."

"Get up," I said, cutting him off. He groaned and instantly sat up at the sound of

my voice, running his hands down his face. He'd been asleep for less than two

hours so I knew he was still somewhat intoxicated, but I didn't have time to wait

for him to completely sober up.

"Shit," he muttered, his voice thick with sleep. He looked over at the window and

squinted at the morning sun streaming through the blinds. His eyes were

bloodshot and he still stunk like cheap liquor. "What time is it?"

"Here or there?"

He glanced at me with confusion. "What?"

"Las Vegas or Chicago time," I clarified, annoyed. "And why are you still just

sitting there? I told you to get up."

"I'm up," he grumbled, barely able to pull himself to his feet. He swayed

unsteadily and had to lean against the wall for support. "Uh, here. Or there. I

don't know, Boss."

"It's a few minutes past seven here, which means it's after nine in Chicago. I'd

like to see my wife at some point today, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't hold me

up."

"Yeah, alright," he said, trying to straighten himself up. "I'm awake."

"Good, because I have a job for you," I said, pulling a small slip of folded up

paper out of my pocket. Unfolding it, I read the address that Ashley scribbled on

the lines in the feminine juvenile scrawl before getting on the bus.

"A job?" Benjamin appeared stunned. "What kind of job?"

I tossed the paper down on the stand beside him. "There's the address of a guy

by the name of Roger. He's Caucasian, mid-thirties, around six feet tall and
twohundred

pounds. He has short dark hair, a scar on his left cheek and his arms are

covered in prison tattoos. He walks with a limp from a blown out knee and carries

a .45 caliber Glock 21. He usually has breakfast at a diner near there every

morning at around this time but today he's probably out on the streets, looking

for something he lost."

"What did he lose?" he asked with confusion, picking up the paper. He squinted

as he attempted to read it, but I imagined his vision was still hazy.

"A girl," I replied. "He's not going to be happy about it, either."

"Uh, okay," he said, eyeing me suspiciously. "Do I want to know what this is

about?"

"No, and you aren't going to," I said. "Just get it done and meet me back here.

Check out time is at eleven, so that gives you about four hours."

"Wait, four hours to do what?"

I sighed exasperatedly. "To take him out."

"Whoa, you want me to kill this guy?" he asked. "I don't even know who he is!"

"I just told you who he is," I said impatiently. "I gave you everything you need to

get the job done - a name, a description and a location. I did most of the work for

you. Are you so incompetent you can't finish it? Is this going to be a problem?"

"No, of course not," he said quickly, shaking his head. "I got it, Boss."

"Good," I said as I started back out of the hotel room. I sincerely hoped he meant

it. "Don't disappoint me, Benjamin."

"Did you kids want some ice cream?"

I looked around, seeing Jane and the two Cullen kids nod excitedly. Mrs. Cullen

smiled at their eagerness and got up from the table, disappearing into the

kitchen. I continued to pick at the food on my plate. Even though I hadn't eaten

since leaving Phoenix, I wasn't really hungry. It was too foreign to me.

It was strange, being with these people. They weren't yelling. No one threw

anything. It was like one of those television families. They even said a prayer

before they ate, holding hands and thanking God.

The only person my mother ever thanked was whoever invented the Martini.

"You're quiet."

Esme's voice was low and immediately I knew it was directed at me. I didn't

bother looking at her or saying anything. It wasn't as if she'd asked a question,

anyway.

"He's an idiot," Jane said. My eyes snapped to her and she smirked. "So it's

better he doesn't talk, really. He'll just bore you to death."

"That's not nice," Esme said, glaring at Jane. "He's your brother. You shouldn't

talk about him like that."

"Would you rather me talk about your brother?" Jane asked.

Esme tensed. "You leave my brother alone."

"Or what?"

"Or… I'll smack you silly!"

Mrs. Cullen stepped into the room at that moment, a horrified look on her face as

she stared at her daughter. "Esme Cullen! How dare you speak to our company

that way!"

"But, Mom, she…"

"No buts! It doesn't matter what she did. That was uncalled for. No ice cream for

you!"

"Jane started it!" Carlisle blurted out in defense of his sister.

Mrs. Cullen glared at him. "Did you not just hear me, young man? I said it didn't

matter! You respect our guests, period. None for you, either. You kids are

seriously a disappointment."

Carlisle gasped, appearing stunned. Mrs. Cullen ignored him and dished out some

ice cream for Jane, who smiled to herself as she started greedily eating it. "Alec,

would you like some?"

I shook my head but before I could say a word Jane interjected. "He doesn't like

ice cream or anything good, really," she said. "He won't even eat chocolate."

"Is that right?" Mrs. Cullen asked, glancing between us. "Why is that?"

I shrugged and Jane laughed. "I already said why. He's an idiot."

Mrs. Cullen looked at her with surprise as she insulted me but shrugged after a

moment, not bothering to scold Jane. She retook her seat, the table remaining

silent. It was tense. It was like she didn't care that her children were upset, or

that they'd been wronged.

Maybe it wasn't so foreign, after all.

VI - Flesh and Blood

July 1982

18 years old

Phoenix, AZ

We all sat in the dining room at the house in Phoenix, gathered around the table

with glasses of scotch in front of us. The room was smoky from the vast number

of cigars lit. My eyes burned. The air was hard to breathe.

Everyone was celebrating, excited, but I was more annoyed than anything. It

wasn't that I was unhappy - I wasn't. I was engaged now and grateful that Esme

had actually agreed to become my wife. But coming back to Phoenix and having

to spend time in this house, after finally getting out of it, was nearly insufferable.

I glanced at the doorway to the room when movement caught my eye and

spotted Carlisle. I watched him curiously as he listened to our conversation,

standing on the sidelines because he hadn't yet been invited in. I was never

really sure what to make of the boy. He was gutsy sometimes, maybe even too

much so, but other times he seemed almost inherently weak.

"This is a good day," Antonio declared, pulling me back to the moment as he

slapped me on the back. "I'm proud. Hell, elated, even. You're loyal. Strong.

Smart. A damn fine man. It's truly going to be an honor to be able to call you my

son."

Those words struck me hard. It was the first time someone had ever said

something like that to me, but my own gratification was diminished when I saw

Carlisle's reaction. He looked like someone had slapped him and he hunched

over, his posture showing his defeat. I'd just been given the one thing he yearned

for most - his father's approval.

There was a commotion at that moment, a loud clattering in the kitchen. We all

looked up, our conversation ceasing, as my mother's voice echoed through the

house. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

"Sorry, Mistress," Elizabeth said, sounding panicked. "I didn't mean it. It won't

happen again."

"It better not, or so help me God you'll regret ever being born."

I shook my head, pretty sure she already regretted that some days, and my eyes

fell upon Carlisle once more. His back was stiffened, his hands clenched into fists.

He wasn't disappointed or feeling sorry for himself anymore. He was murderously

angry. He looked to be fighting hard to control his emotions and just like that,

without saying a single word, he'd told me his entire story. He told me what he

was thinking and how he was feeling. He told me what he wanted and what he

feared most. He told me where his vulnerabilities were and how I could exploit

them. In the span of a minute, just in body language, he told me exactly how to

destroy him.

He'd never be a good made-man. He didn't know how to bluff. I could see right

through him.

Present Day

Blue Diamond, NV

It took less than thirty minutes for me to get to Blue Diamond from Las Vegas. I

drove through the barren roads quickly toward the new two-story house Edward

and Isabella had built. It was nice, fairly large, with an immense back yard full of

grass and trees. It somewhat reminded me of the place in Forks. Isolated, but yet

it didn't feel completely cut off from society.

I pulled up in front and parked beside Edward's black Mercedes. I was surprised

he hadn't traded it in for something different after moving out of Chicago,

considering I knew he wasn't particularly fond of the car. Judging by the condition

of it, however, I figured he probably hadn't given it much thought. It was dirty,

mud and dust coating it in a thick layer so it almost appeared a brownish color.

I climbed out of the car and made my way onto the porch, seeing a small black

cat sitting near the top step. It cocked its head to the side as it stared at me,

eyeing me up. I didn't like it but resisted the urge to kick it, just in case it

belonged to Isabella. I certainly didn't want to disrespect her, especially in her

own home.

The front door was open and I could faintly hear the sound of the television

playing inside so I tapped on the screen door and waited. It only took a few

seconds for Isabella to appear from the living room, still wearing pajamas with

her hair casually pulled back. The moment she saw me confusion passed across

her face, which was replaced quickly with alarm. Edward obviously hadn't warned

her I was coming. She worried he was in trouble.

"Uh, hey, Alec, sir," she said nervously, opening the door for me. "Please, come

in."

"Isabella," I said, nodding in greeting. "I apologize if I'm interrupting."

"Oh, not at all. I was just, you know..." She motioned toward the living room, as

if that was answer enough. She appeared exhausted, like she barely had time to

breathe, but from where I stood the house looked immaculate. I wasn't surprised,

considering she was the type of person who could multi-task. In a twenty-four

hour day, Isabella could squeeze out forty hours worth of work. It was a pity

women weren't allowed in La Cosa Nostra. She would've been a good asset.

"Edward's asleep upstairs. I can get him."

"That's not necessary," I said. "I can wake him myself."

She started to nod but tensed, shifting gears quickly to shake her head. "Oh, you

don't want to do that," she said, slightly panicked. "He's not, um... you know,

decent."

She whispered the last word, her face turning red from embarrassment. She was

a grown woman and I was, unfortunately, quite aware of their active sex life, but

she acted as if she were indulging me in some great secret.

"Then I suppose it would be best if you got him, in that case."

She nodded, her eyes darting back to the living room in deliberation. "I, uh..."

she started, pausing as she turned back to me.

I motioned toward the stairs. "Go on."

"Okay," she replied. She started up to the second floor and I stood there for a

moment before slowly making my way to the living room. I froze at the entrance

when I spotted the pink blanket on the wooden floor, a baby girl sitting on it. Her

bright green eyes were fixed in my direction. Reddish-brown curls stuck up all

over her head and she wore nothing but a white shirt and a diaper, looking a lot

like how I recalled Edward appearing when he was a child.

In fact, if I were being honest. she sort of looked similar to how he'd appeared

last night.

Besides pictures that my wife insisted on showing me every chance she got, it

was the first time I'd ever seen the girl. She'd been born about six months ago, if

I recalled correctly. Elizabeth was her name, but they called her Libby. Her

middle name was Brianna, which had been Renee's name at birth. Her free name.

Named after both of their mothers. They would've been honored.

It was no secret that I wasn't a fan of children. They were demanding creatures

that required a lot of time and attention, and I simply didn't have the patience to

deal with them. Chelsea had been mostly self-sufficient by the time she came to

be with us and I still had a hard time adjusting to her presence. It was difficult,

having to consider another person in my day-to-day life. I had enough to worry

about, between La Cosa Nostra and my wife, and they were both strong enough

to stand on their own. I couldn't imagine adding something completely helpless to

the mix.

Having said that, however, I had respect for those who chose to do it. Even

though Carlisle had been insistent that he failed his family, I always admired that

aspect of his life. He was dedicated to them. They were his driving force, his

reason for getting out of bed every morning. They were his life. What did I have?

I had money. I had power. I had respect. Yes, I had the love of my wife, but so

did he. He had everything I had, and even more. He'd created life. A part of him

lived on, and as difficult as it might've been considering them in everything he

did, at least he had a reason for his actions. He initiated for them. He killed for

them. He stole for them. He lied for them. I envied him that. I had Chelsea to

consider now, but it didn't erase the twenty years I spent murdering, stealing and

lying, just for the sake of doing it.

Not to say I regretted any of it, or to give the impression that I had a hard time

sleeping at night. That was far from the truth. If I could go back in time, I would

do it again. I would've done a few small things differently, of course. I would've

stood up for Elizabeth and Carlisle, so he didn't have to stand up to his father all

alone when he wanted to marry her. I would've helped Elizabeth when she asked

me to, so she wouldn't have spent her last years fighting for Isabella with no

help. She might have even lived, had I helped her when she asked. But

regardless, after everything, I would've still become exactly who I became. And I

wasn't ashamed of who I was.

But standing there, looking at the little girl on the floor and knowing Edward had

purpose, I almost envied him as much as I had his father. That was, until her

expression shifted and the child let out a piercing scream.

I cringed, the noise hurting my ears, and instantly took a step away. She balled

her hands into fists, her face turning red as her wails echoed throughout the

house. She was clearly furious. The angel had turned into the devil, from heaven

to hell in a fraction of a second.

I wanted nothing to do with it.

I turned around, planning to retrieve Isabella, and spotted Edward stepping off of

the stairs. He was still half-naked, wearing only a pair of pants, and appeared

even more disheveled than he had hours earlier.

"Bella!" he yelled, grimacing from the screams. "She's crying!"

"I can hear, Edward," Isabella called from upstairs, not sounding at all concerned.

"Do something about it."

He groaned, brushing right past me without even acknowledging my presence.

Was he even awake? Leaning down, he picked up the little girl from the blanket

and held her carefully. "Christ, come on, baby," he grumbled, patting her back.

"Daddy's fucking tired here. You can't be doing this shit now."

"Should you be cursing at your child?" I asked. I immediately thought of my

mother and her vulgar mouth, the way she'd curse me every time she drank. I

forced those thoughts away quickly as I felt the anger brewing inside of me. It

was dangerous dwelling on those things.

He glanced at me and shrugged. "Probably not, but I think it's obvious I have no

clue what the hell I'm doing."

"I wouldn't go that far. You seem to be doing quite well," I said, motioning

toward the baby. She was quiet now, her eyes drifting closed as she lay against

his chest. It only took him a matter of seconds to placate her. He almost made it

look easy.

He glanced down at her and sighed. "Pure luck."

"You? Lucky?"

"Yeah, maybe it's my Irish side."

I grimaced at the mention of Irish. Times had changed, and years had passed,

but our rivalry with the Irish still remained intact. "I don't think so," I said,

shaking my head. "It seems to be instinctive, so I'd say its the Italian in you."

"I thought you said my instincts were shit these days."

"Well, yes, your street smarts do leave a lot to be desired."

He chuckled. "Shit, here I thought you were actually complimenting me for once.

But, whatever, I'll work on it."

"I know you will," I said. "And it was a compliment, Edward. You're doing as well

as to be expected."

He looked at me with surprise. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," I said. I wasn't sure why he was thanking me. I only spoke the

truth.

There were footsteps on the stairs and I looked over, seeing Isabella had changed

her clothes and fixed her hair. She smiled politely at me, before her gaze shifted

to Edward, her expression softening. She stared at him with wonder, her devotion

to her family evident in her eyes.

"Would you like some coffee?" she asked, turning back to me again.

"If you have some, yes," I said. I tried to be careful when answering Isabella's

questions. She was still trained to serve, but Mafia wives weren't supposed to be

treated that way. She was to be respected like royalty, especially considering she

was essentially my niece.

It was still strange to think. I recalled seeing her as an infant at the Swans and

being ashamed for everyone connected to the situation, ashamed that their son

had made a child with their slave. That they had to live with the stigma that they

were a part of her family. I even judged my sister for marrying into the group.

But now, years later, Isabella was my family, and I'd kill anyone with the

audacity to think that was shameful.

"We always have coffee," Edward said. "And Red Bull. And Adderal. Gotta stay

awake somehow in this motherfucker."

"I hope you're joking about that last one," I said. "Unless you have a prescription,

of course."

"Of course," he grumbled.

"Yes, he's joking," Isabella said, rolling her eyes as she returned with a ceramic

mug. She handed it to me and I thanked her, taking a sip of the drink. It was

fresh, the soothing warm liquid coating my throat before settling in my empty

stomach. I couldn't recall the last time I ate anything and almost as if she could

read my mind, Isabella spoke again. "How about I make some breakfast?"

"Oh, you are fucking heaven-sent, tesoro," Edward said, leaning over to kiss her.

"I'm starving."

She looked at me apprehensively, her cheeks once again red due to Edward's

display of affection. "Breakfast would be nice," I assured her. She smiled,

relieved, and set off for the kitchen.

"We can talk in the living room," Edward said, turning in that direction. I

followed, taking a seat on his couch as he lay his daughter down on the pink

blanket. The moment his hands left her, however, her eyes popped back open

and she started whimpering.

"Fuck," he said, picking her right back up. He seemed to be having some sort of

internal battle going on as he stood there before he just shrugged and took a

seat beside me, still holding her to his chest. He looked at me nervously. "This

isn't a problem, is it? I can do something with her if you don't want her here, but,

I mean, it's not like she can say shit about anything."

"It's fine," I said. His lack of rest was messing with his common sense. "I like to

wait until they're at least able to talk before I make them take the vow of

silence."

He stared a me blankly for a moment before cracking a smile. "Was that a joke?"

"You tell me. Was it funny?"

"Not really," he replied honestly. "You should probably keep your day job."

I laughed, shaking my head. "Good advice. I do believe I'll follow it. Now, would

you like a piece of advice?"

"Sure," he replied, eyeing me curiously.

"If your Boss is coming to your house, it would do you well to tell your wife in

advance."

He groaned. "I meant to tell her, but I was so tired when I got home that I didn't

even wake her. I just passed the fuck out."

"If that's the case, why weren't you decent when I got here?" I asked. Was he

lying to me? What was the point?

It took a moment for him to register what I meant and he laughed. Loudly. "Fuck,

I wish I had the energy for that. I stripped when I got home and was just too lazy

to put on any goddamn clothes."

"Enough said." It was way too much information as it was. "Anyway, to the point

of my visit."

His demeanor changed rapidly, from relaxed to paranoid. If I didn't know any

better, his paranoia would make me think he was high. "Did something happen?"

"No. Well, yes, but nothing you don't already know about," I replied. "Quite

frankly it's none of my business, but your aunt is insistent that I tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"Last week some bones washed up ashore around James Island, near La Push.

They haven't made a positive identification yet, but I'm sure you can guess who

they will likely belong to when or if they do."

He looked almost like he was going to be sick for a moment. "Shit."

"There's no cause for concern. That most that will come of it is they'll want to
reinterview

the two of you. I wasn't going to say anything but Esme thought you

should be aware of it, considering he was once your friend."

"Uh, yeah," he replied, appearing dumbfounded. He'd known Jacob was dead,

had witnessed it, but I was quite sure he never knew what actually came of the

body. I could sense his guilt and felt as if I should say something, but I had no

words for him. It was the reason I hadn't wanted to tell him in the first place, but

no one else did either.

When there's no one else, it's always left to me.

"Will you be okay?" I felt like an idiot asking the question, knowing he would be,

but it seemed like something people said at a moment like that.

"Yeah, fine," he replied. "Can we, uh, not tell Isabella right now?"

"Yes, but you should tell her at some point," I said. "Don't keep more secrets

than you have to from your wife, if you trust her. She can't ever be forced to

testify against you and if she ever does it willingly, you know, we can just have

her taken out."

He flinched and there was a flash of anger, but he managed to control his

temper. I knew I came off as cold but I didn't intend to sound so harsh. I just

told it as it was, or how it could be. Pointing out the worst case scenario didn't

make me cruel or soulless. It made me a realist.

Plus, if I were honest, it was entertaining watching their reactions. They were

primal, fierce. Instinctive. It told me a lot about their character.

"That would never happen," he said through clenched teeth.

"I know. I wouldn't have ever vouched for her if I thought it would," I said. "Call

it another unfunny joke."

"The worst joke you ever fucking told," he muttered. "So, is that it? I thought for

sure you were coming over here to yell at me for something I did or didn't do.

Maybe to tell me I was fired."

"I don't fire people, Edward. You know that," I said. "If I wanted you gone, I

would've just sent Benjamin over in the middle of the night to get rid of you."

I could practically see his guard go back up. He sat up a little straighter, his hold

on his daughter a little tighter. There was a look in his eye that reminded me of a

predator, his defenses on high alert. If he was Homeland Security, he'd be

declaring a code red.

"So where is Little Man Tate?" he asked, his tone clipped. "Shooting some dice in

an alley somewhere?"

"I certainly hope not, considering he's supposed to be doing a job right now."

"Now? Here?" he asked, the spark of panic returning when I nodded. I had

another man working in his territory. That threatened his very being. "What's he

doing?"

"Nothing that pertains to your job, don't worry."

Even though I told him not to, I could still see his concern. He didn't completely

trust me and probably never would, but I didn't blame him. I had killed his father

in front of him, after all.

Isabella appeared at that moment, wielding a spatula. "How do you like your

eggs?" she asked hesitantly, like she was worried she was interrupting.

"I'm not very particular," I replied. "However you choose to make them, I'm sure

they'll be great."

She smiled and disappeared back into the kitchen again, and I turned to address

Edward before he could question me about Benjamin any further. "I would

appreciate it if you showered and shaved before breakfast. Otherwise, you'll ruin

my appetite."

He not-so-stealthily rolled his eyes as he stood up. Something about being in his

own house, outside of the city limits, made him brave. It wasn't smart of him,

though. There was no one watching here. I wasn't above punching him now.

"And make me copies of all of your files, while you're up there."

"Yes, sir," he muttered, starting to walk away, but his movement halted after a

few steps. Before I realized what he was doing, or even had a chance to react, he

quickly turned back and placed the child on my lap. I grabbed a hold of her so

she didn't fall and he backed away from me, holding his hands out defensively.

"I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Edward Anthony Cullen," I warned, glaring at him. She wiggled in my lap, her

eyes opening as she started whimpering. "I swear, if you don't get this child right

now..."

"You'll what?" he asked. "Kill me?"

"Don't tempt me."

He smirked, clearly amused by my discomfort. "I'm just following orders, sir," he

replied, walking away. I watched his retreating form, stunned, before glancing

back down. Libby stared at me with awe, her eyes scanning my face as if she

were studying me, with not an ounce of anxiety in her expression. I couldn't

recall the last time someone looked at me so intensely without worry or

trepidation.

I didn't like it. Not a bit.

After a moment her face contorted and I tensed, preparing for her to start

screaming, but instead a laugh sounded through the room. She smiled widely,

showing me her toothless mouth, and kicked her legs excitedly as she reached

her hand up toward my face.

And for the first time in years, someone made me nervous.

My mother was grumbling to herself when I walked into the kitchen, a bottle of

wine in one hand as she threw dishes into the empty sink with her other. I could

tell she was already somewhat intoxicated and was glad the guests had mostly

left, because the last thing I needed was the entire Borgata witnessing one of her

drunken rages.

My father had done a good job of keeping that part of her secret over the years,

since she was isolated from everyone living across the country. I didn't want his

facade of a decent marriage and happy family to be ruined, especially so late in

his life. He deserved to die with respect and honor, even if it wouldn't remain

intact for long after he was gone. After all, she was bound to throw a fit at the

funeral when she found out he'd already transferred all of his assets to me.

He was sick. So sick, in fact, that I doubted he'd live to see the wedding. They

gave him about six months. Stage four lung cancer, likely from all of the cigars

he'd smoked at parties just like this. I wasn't sad about it. I was actually happy

for him, in a way. He would die naturally, by God's hand, and not by the hand of

another man. Not many of us would be so lucky to accomplish that in our life.

"I'm leaving," I announced. My mother didn't even turn to face me. She'd barely

looked at me all night, and the few times she did her face was laced with disgust.

"I'm not surprised," she said, shaking her head. "All of you are the same. You all

leave. None of you give a shit about me. You don't give a shit about anyone but

yourselves."

"That isn't true," I said. "But I have a life I need to get back to."

"Well go on then," she said, throwing her hands in the air. Some of the wine

splashed out of the bottle, onto the floor. She glared at it angrily, like it had

somehow wronged her. "You're all worthless, every single one of you. There's a

fucking mess, a mess you and this sham of a party created, and that little bitch

Elizabeth is nowhere to be found. I don't even know why she's still here. She

does nothing but eat my food and use my water and take up all of my oxygen.

It's like having three kids. You and Jane never did anything but take up space,

too."

I ignored the insult. I was used to it. "Elizabeth gets her work done."

She laughed dryly. "Yeah, you'd know, since you spend so much fucking time

here," she said sarcastically. "I ought to just get rid of her. Find someone useful."

"She's been with the family for a long time."

"So? If you think she's so damn great, you take her," she said, taking a swig of

wine straight from the bottle. "Call it an engagement present. A shitty present for

a shitty son. May you be as happy as me."

She took another drink and as horrid as she was, I had the overwhelming urge to

thank her, anyway.

"Thank you, Isabella," I said, pushing away my nearly-empty plate. The food was

heavy in my stomach and there was no way I could take another bite. "It was

wonderful."

She smiled with relief where she stood across the room, rocking the baby in her

arms as she fed her from a bottle. She had retrieved the child quickly after

Edward went to shower and apologized profusely for what he'd done. I told her it

was no burden, not wanting to stress her any further, although those had been

some of the most unnerving moments of my life. "You're welcome. And again,

really, sorry about earlier."

She glared at Edward, who snickered from his seat across the table. "Yeah, I'm

sorry," he said, no genuine remorse to his voice. He'd had the time of his life

knowing I was squirming.

"I'm sure you are," I replied, glancing at my watch. It was nearing half past ten

already, time passing swiftly. "I hate to eat and run, but I need to be getting

back."

"It's understandable," Isabella said, likely relieved to be getting me out of her

house. She was never comfortable with me nearby. "Thank you for coming.

Maybe next time you can bring Esme along."

It was unlikely, considering I hated bringing her with me on business, but I

nodded anyway. I stood up, holding the files Edward had given me, and started

for the door. I hesitated as I passed Edward, grabbing his shoulder and squeezing

hard. He cringed, cursing as he tried to pull away from me. "Don't do this to me

again," I said, my voice low. He nodded and grabbed his shoulder when I let go,

eyeing me warily.

"Yes, sir."

"I can't believe your father didn't even come down," my mother said, shaking her

head. "Guess even you aren't important enough to inconvenience him."

"He's sick," I said. I wasn't in the mood to play her blame games. "He wasn't well

enough to entertain, you know that."

She laughed bitterly. "Yeah, he's sick, alright," she said. "Sick of us. He probably

prayed for this to happen just to get away from his family. I wouldn't put it past

him. He never wanted to take care of us. He never even wanted you, Alec. That's

the reason he isn't down here. Not because he's sick. He isn't here because he

doesn't give a shit."

I didn't respond. It was pointless. My mother truly believed she was the victim in

everything. My father had left Chicago weeks ago, planning to spend some time

in Phoenix with my mother while he had the chance. I wasn't sure why he

bothered. Redemption, possibly. Nostalgia. Shame. Yearning. There was no

telling, but I suspected the radiation might've warped his senses.

My mother always complained he was gone, but now that he was there she didn't

want him. He couldn't win. "I should check on him before I leave," I said.

"Yeah, you do that," she said. "Go kiss his ass. Everyone else does."

I shook my head and walked away, quickly making my way upstairs to the

bedroom. I tapped on the door, not wanting to disturb him if he was sleeping, but

his voice called out right away. "It's open."

I pushed the door open, seeing him sitting on the edge of the bed. He glanced

over at me, his expression one of disappointment. "That was the weakest knock

I'd ever heard, Alec."

"I didn't want to wake you."

"Excuses," he said, shaking his head. "The only place excuses will get you is six

feet under, son."

"Yes, sir."

"So did you need something?" he asked. "I'm assuming so, since you're here."

"I just wanted to check on you before I left."

He shook his head quickly. "Don't treat me like I'm an invalid, Alec."

"I'm not," I replied. "I'm treating you like you're my father."

He seemed surprised by my response. He stared at me for a moment, his guard

dropping as his expression softened. "Thank you, son."

"No need to thank me."

He smiled gently. "Go on and get out of here. I'm feeling a bit better, so I think

I'll be heading back to Chicago soon. Maybe we'll get together and do something.

Catch a Bears game this fall."

Now it was my turn to be surprised. It was the first time he'd ever actually

showed interest in spending time with me. We never had father and son days.

There were no fishing trips, no bonding... the closest we'd come was the day of

my initiation. "Maybe."

"Good," he said, nodding. "I'll see you later, son."

I nodded and walked out, avoiding my mother as I slipped out of the house.

Something about the exchange had put me at ease.

Little did I know, it would be the last time I ever spoke to him. I had no way of

knowing, as I walked out that door, that a mere few hours later he'd be dead. He

stopped breathing in his sleep and everyone proclaimed he'd died in peace, but I

knew better. The moment I heard he'd passed, the memory of my mother

standing over my bed with a pillow came to mind.

VII - Against the Clock

September 2008

44 years old

Chicago, IL

I stood frozen in the doorway, watching the spray of bullets ripping through the

backyard. Carlisle stood in the middle of it all, firing at Aro, and on the sidelines

stood a shell-shocked Edward. Both men yelled to him, Carlisle imploring him to

run, while Aro demanded he fulfill his duties. Edward looked panicked, torn

between two worlds - the world he wanted to be in, with his family, where there

was peace, and the world he had to be in, where chaos and violence controlled

our lives.

It didn't take a genius to figure out which world would ultimately win.

He wouldn't run. As much as he loved his father and wanted to walk away, there

was no way he would. That October day in 1996, when his mother had begged

him to run and he listened, had sealed that decision long ago. He carried guilt

from that - guilt that he'd abandoned her. He ran, leaving someone he loved to

face the fight alone.

He wouldn't do it again, even if it meant certain death.

I raised my gun and pointed it straight at Edward, pulling the trigger. The bullet

flew from the muzzle and hit the side of his hand, blood pouring from the wound

instantly as it pierced the skin. He dropped his gun reflexively, the weapon

clattering to the concrete ground. He looked stunned. Horrified. Frightened.

Frightened of me, even though I'd just saved him.

I sprinted straight for him, knocking him to the ground to get him out of the way.

I told him to stay there as I stood back up, hoping he'd listened as I fired at

Carlisle. I aimed over his head so not to actually hurt him, but shot close enough

that Aro wouldn't be able to tell. Carlisle knew exactly what I was doing and fired

back, bullets whizzing right by my ear. He always had impeccable aim. Not once

did I fear for my life.

Carlisle's movements slowed eventually. I could see he was struggling, his

breathing labored. I knew he'd taken a few bullets, his hands covered with blood

as he clutched his chest.

The moment he took off his coat, exposing the Uzi strapped to him, I knew it was

all over. He bowed his head and did the sign of the cross, his mouth moving

furiously as he prayed. Edward's screams cut through the night and I cringed

from the sound, his pleas falling upon deaf ears. It was too late to stop it, too late

to take it back. What was done was done.

I wasn't surprised, not in the least. After all, we'd planned it that way.

Present Day

Las Vegas, NV / Chicago, IL

The moment I opened the hotel room door at ten minutes to eleven, Benjamin

jumped up from his spot on the bed. He was obviously on edge, fidgeting and

twiddling his thumbs. He looked strung out and his behavior worried me. He was

usually relaxed.

"Everything fine?" I asked.

He nodded. I could see he was trembling and it struck me at that moment that it

had been his first hit. I nearly felt guilty about it, having not adequately prepared

him, but there was no sense dwelling on what couldn't be changed. "Good," I

replied. "Get yourself together and let's get out of here."

I waited while he used the restroom and he returned after a moment, his hands

digging in his pockets. "Boss, do you know what happened to the money from

last night?" he asked, clealry not remembering how the night had ended.

"No," I lied. The money had paid for a young girl's freedom, but I wasn't going to

tell him that. Let him think he lost it. Maybe he'd learn something from his

irresponsibility.

"Damn, so I guess I still owe you $300, then."

"I guess so."

I checked us out of the hotel and drove to the airport, returning the rental car. It

took about an hour to get the jet prepared and Benjamin slept the entire three

hour flight back to Chicago, but I spent the time going through Edward's files. He

kept meticulous notes on everyone he had contact with, from personal

information about their lives to how much they were indebted, down to the

penny.

It didn't happen often, but I actually found myself impressed.

According to my watch, it was a quarter after five in the evening when we landed

in Chicago. I dropped Benjamin off at the house he shared with his parents,

telling him to meet me in my office at around nine, before setting off toward

home. My phone started ringing when I was three blocks away and I tensed,

realizing I'd forgotten to call Esme when I was on my way. I grabbed it, expecting

it to be her, but was surprised when it was instead Benjamin's father, Frank.

Numerous thoughts passed through my mind at that moment and I found myself

suddenly angry, convinced Benjamin had divulged details of our trip. Frank

Mancini had been a made man as long as me and he knew what went on, but no

man with an ounce of compassion wanted to hear of his own child being forced to

commit murder.

"Evanson, speaking."

I waited for him to confront me. I was prepared for his anger. I was ready to

remind him of his place. Unfortunately, however, I hadn't expected to hear

elation. "Guess who finally captured that canary?"

The sixth member of Mancini's crew, a man named Marcello, had gone rogue a

few weeks earlier after being caught getting out of the back of an unmarked

police cruiser on the south side of Chicago. There was no reason for his presence

there, no record of him being arrested, which only left us with one conclusion-he

was singing his heart out. I'd called him in for a sit down and he never showed

up, instead disappearing in the middle of the night. He'd clearly panicked, leaving

everything behind when he fled - including his wife and children. Rookie mistake.

A lesser man than me would've killed them.

"Usual spot," I told him. "I'll be there soon."

"Yes, sir."

I hung up the phone as I pulled into my driveway, realizing right away that my

wife wasn't home. In the spot where her car was usually parked was a familiar

jeep with two car seats secured in the back. I made my way in the house and

before I could even close the front door Carlisle appeared, running down the

stairs. He froze halfway down when he spotted me.

"Carlisle," I said, acknowledging him. It was odd for me, those moments where

he and I came face-to-face and I addressed him by his name. There was always a

spark of fear in his eyes, and I was used to seeing apprehension with people, but

it was different with him. It made me think of those final moments at Aro's house

and the look Carlisle had on his face when he put the gun to his head. The

inevitability. The fright. The ultimate resignment. It was that look that led me to

take my brother-in-law's life and it wasn't something I liked having to relive.

Carlisle sat back on his knees, struggling to breathe. The gunfire had ceased, in

its place the faint wail of sirens. They were approaching fast, growing louder as

the seconds passed.

Nine blocks.

Eight blocks.

Seven blocks.

Carlisle reached beside him, picking up his discarded pistol. "Carlisle!" I warned,

seeing his desolation. He glanced in my direction, his face ashen and eyes dull.

"It's time to see Lizzie now," he said quietly, his words garbled. I shook my head,

knowing exactly what he was thinking. He'd expected to die tonight - I'd expected

him to die - but not this way. It was wrong. It wasn't supposed to end this way.

He nodded defiantly, stubbornly, as the sirens grew even closer.

Six blocks.

Five blocks.

Carlisle raised his gun, pressing it to his chin. Edward screamed, horrified, but the

sound was muffled as my heart thumped wildly. Carlisle stared at me, his eyes

pleading for help. He'd never ask me to do it, he had too much pride. Too much

heart. But his expression spoke volumes. It always had. Decades later, even after

everything he'd endured, he still couldn't bluff.

Not with me, anyway.

Four blocks.

Three blocks.

We were running out of time.

I grabbed my gun as a flash of memory hit me.

"You want to date my daughter?" Antonio asked, staring at me with shock. I'd

told him I needed to speak with him about something important. He obviously

had been expecting business.

"Yes, sir," I replied. "I would like to ask her out."

He was quiet for a moment, deep in thought. "I like you, Alec. You're a great

asset to me. Not only that, but you have potential. Dating my daughter... It

complicates things. You know how it is. I'd hate to have to lose you."

By losing me, he meant killing me.

"So I'm going to ask you one more time, and I want you to think about this

carefully. We can forget this conversation ever happened if you want, otherwise

you need to understand there are serious ramifications to saying 'yes'. So I'm

asking, Alec. Do you really want to date my daughter?"

I nodded. "Yes, sir. I do."

He smiled. "That takes guts, Evanson. Guts no one else has shown," he said,

holding his hand out to me. "You have my blessing."

"Thank you, sir," I said, taking his hand to shake it. He squeezed mine firmly,

yanking me toward him.

"But if you do anything to break her heart - and I mean anything - I will make

you suffer. I don't care if I'm dead and rotting in a grave somewhere. I'll come

back for you, Evanson. It doesn't matter if you mean well. The road to hell is

paved with good intentions and that's precisely where you'll go if this ends

badly."

"I understand," I replied. "I swear on my life I won't hurt your family."

I closed my eyes, bowing my head. Seeing the plea in Carlisle's eyes, knowing

what he planned to do, I knew I had to break that promise. I had to do the one

thing that would hurt Esme most.

I had to break her heart. It was the only way to save his.

Two blocks.

One block.

Out of time.

"Perdonatemi," I said. I aimed, my finger on the trigger, and for the first time in

my life I hesitated. He wasn't just another target, another kill. Another number.

He was my friend. My brother.

He was just like me.

The single gunshot tore through the air, dropping him instantly. Edward cried.

Sirens wailed.

I prayed he'd found peace.

Little Carlisle said nothing as I addressed him, rushing right past me after a

moment as he bolted for the dining room. I closed the door and followed him,

hearing multiple voices as I approached. Emmett and Rosalie sat at the table,

surrounded by their sons and Chelsea. Beside Chelsea were two other girls, both

of which were unfamiliar to me. They looked to be about Chelsea's age, eight,

and all three of them were strangely dressed the same in brown vests and berets.

"Why are other people's children in my house?" I asked, confused. If there was

one thing I hated, it was strangers invading my space.

Everyone looked over at me when I spoke and Chelsea rolled her eyes. "They're

my friends."

Friends. She practically sneered the word, although I think I was the only one

who actually noticed. Friends, to Chelsea, meant something entirely different

than what it did to most. She wasn't a trusting person, having spent years in the

foster care system fighting for attention. Survival to her meant standing out,

being better than the rest and having something unique that made people take

notice. She was cutthroat, highly motivated and determined. Kids her age were

her competition, every single one of them a threat to her success. Friends in her

mind weren't people who had her back. They were reasons to watch her back.

It wasn't that she was cruel. She was quite the opposite - a helpful child,

intelligent and compassionate. She was just constantly concerned with being

outdone and wouldn't let anyone get close enough to harm her.

"Do your friends have names?" I asked, looking between the two girls

suspiciously.

"Melody and Amanda," she replied.

"Last names?"

Chelsea rolled her eyes yet again. My questioning obviously wasn't welcomed, but

necessary. "Geez, they aren't spies."

I gave her a pointed look. "Last names, Chelsea."

"Johnson and Smith," she grumbled.

Clearly American. "Do I know their parents?" I asked. The names were so generic

I couldn't be certain either way. Children or not, some individuals had no

business being in my home.

"No, I don't think so."

"What do they do? Where do they live?"

"Ugh, not now, please," Chelsea pleaded, her voice low and whiny. I knew the

tone well. I was embarrassing her.

"Yo, they're cool, Unk," Emmett interjected. "Their parents know where they are."

He spoke like those words were supposed to be reassuring, when really it was the

opposite. Who in their right mind allowed their children to frequent my home?

Besides, I really couldn't care less about their safety. My concern was ours.

"Are you hungry?" Rosalie asked, attempting to change the subject. I let it go for

the time being.

"No," I replied. "I'm still full from breakfast this morning."

Emmett stared at me. "Please tell me Izzy Bizzy didn't cook for you."

"Isabella did, yes."

He shook his head. "Lucky bastard," he muttered. Rosalie shoved him, narrowing

her eyes in anger.

"Something wrong with my food?" she asked defensively.

"Of course not, babe," he said quickly, looking down at his plate. Hot dogs, tater

tots and macaroni and cheese. "It's just, you know, sometimes this shit gets

tiring."

I smiled, understanding completely. Between Chelsea and my wife, I was quite

sure my household personally kept Oscar Meyer and Kraft in business.

"How did you know I saw Isabella?" I asked.

"Esme said you were in Vegas," Rosalie said. "She didn't expect you back yet."

I frowned, realizing I'd forgotten to call my wife. Again. She was going to be

furious.

"So, how's my brother?" Emmett asked.

What was it with people trying to use me as a middle man? "Why don't you ask

him?"

"Like he'd really tell me," Emmett said, laughing.

True, I realized. Edward was trained to pretend to be in control, even when he

wasn't. "He's surviving," I replied.

Emmett nodded, as if that was all that needed saying, and turned back to his

food. He always took everything at face value, no need for unnecessary

explanations or reading between the lines. It was a reason I was fond of him. We

weren't very close, and there would be no fishing trips to bond in our future, but

he was a welcome presence in my life.

I didn't always think it would be that way, though. I was conflicted about Emmett

for a while. It was hard looking at him, knowing Stephan was his birth father. My

enemy's blood rushed through his veins, pumping his heart and sustaining his

life. The man had nearly killed me, and a part of him had found its way into my

family. In my inner circle. It felt like an invasion.

I wanted to tell Emmett the truth about his parentage, to clear the air, but Esme

had sworn me to secrecy. I found it strange, considering she'd insisted I tell

Edward what I knew. I pointed this out as hypocrisy to her but she disagreed,

telling me there was a big difference - Edward deserved to hear the truth,

whereas Emmett deserved not to be told. 'Hasn't the family been through

enough?' she asked. 'Can't we just be?'

I conceded and agreed to remain silent, although I wanted to tell her she'd

married the wrong man if she was looking for peace.

I left them to their food and went into my office to shred Edward's paperwork,

disposing of the evidence of our work. He'd keep the originals as long as

necessary, but eventually they'd be destroyed also. We never kept written

records for long, relying on our memory to keep track of things.

Which was sometimes unfortunate, considering people were prone to error. I

certainly couldn't safely say I'd never made a mistake.

Afterward I returned to the dining room, seeing everyone was finishing up and

the two girls were already gone. Probably fled the first chance they got. It

wouldn't surprise me if they never came back.

"I need to head back out," I told them.

"Have fun," Emmett said, smiling after he spoke. "Or not, I don't know. Don't

want to know, either."

"Yeah, you don't want to know," I responded, shaking my head. "Have a good

evening."

I started to walk out but before I could Chelsea stopped me. "Wait!" she yelled,

shoving her chair back as she jumped up. She ran out of the room and I stood

there for a moment, confused, before she returned clutching a paper. She held it

out to me. "I need to sell cookies."

"Okay," I replied, taking the paper from her. "Is it a fundraiser for school?"

"No," she said, crinkling her nose like my question disgusted her. "It's for the

Brownies. You know, my Girl Scouts troop?"

"Girl Scouts?" I asked, surprised. When had she become a Girl Scout? "How long

have you been a member?"

"A few weeks."

"Why did you join?"

"Uh, I don't know," she said, shrugging. "Everyone does."

I stared at her with disbelief. "You joined an organization just because everyone

else did?"

"Yes."

"And what did you have to do in order to be a member?"

"Nothing, really," she replied. "It was really easy. We just have to pay dues and

take some pledge when we first join."

"A pledge?" I asked. "You swore an oath?"

"Well, yes, I guess," she said, looking at me apprehensively. "It wasn't a big

deal."

"Not a big deal?" I asked, stunned. "What was the oath?"

She looked like she was going to ignore my question, but my expression told her

otherwise. She begrudgingly held up three fingers and mumbled, "On my honor, I

will try: to serve God and my country, to help people at all times, and to live by

the Girl Scout Law."

"There's a law?" I asked. "What is it?"

"Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously."

She sighed. "I'll do my best to behonest, fair, friendly, helpful, considerate,

caring, uh..." she paused. "...some other things. I'll be responsible for what I say

and do,

respect myself and others... Oh, and respect authority. Um, I'll use resources

wisely to make the world a better place, and I'll be a sister to every Girl Scout."

She looked downright proud that she'd mostly been able to recite it. "And you

agreed to that?"

"Yes."

"And what do you do with these people?" I asked. "Other than sell cookies,

obviously."

"Uh, we have meetings," she said. "And we go on missions and stuff."

"Missions? They give you tasks?"

"Yes, and we get badges when we do it right. The more badges, the better."

"So let me get this straight," I said. "You swore an oath to these people to live

how they think you should live, you give them money for belonging, you do what

they tell you to, and if you prove yourself, you'll move up in rank. Is that right?"

She nodded excitedly and I just stared at her, borderline horrified. She'd joined

the Children's Mafia.

"It's just the Girl Scouts," Emmett said, knowing exactly where my mind was

going. "They go camping and tie knots and braid each other's hair and shit.

Completely harmless."

"And sell cookies," Chelsea stressed. Back to the Godforsaken cookies again.

"Fine," I replied, holding the paper back out to her. "Go ahead and sell your

cookies."

She just stared at it. "You want me to do it?"

She wasn't making any sense. I was already missing the days where she just said

what she wanted, take it or leave it. The older she got, the more confusing she

became. I was beginning to think it was a trait that came ingrained in the female

population. "Aren't you supposed to?"

"Yes, but, I mean..." she stammered. "You really want me to go to people's

houses and ask them for money? Like, strangers?"

"Well, no," I said. There was no way she was going to a stranger's house, much

less to ask them for money. That sounded a lot like begging and we didn't beg.

Lie? Yes. Steal? Yes. Beg? Never. "Can't you just sell to your friends' parents?"

"No, they're all selling cookies, too."

"Then just sell to family."

"We don't have enough family."

"We have plenty of family," I insisted. "I'm sure Emmett will buy a box."

"Hell yeah," he said. "Maybe even two."

"See, there you go. Two boxes already sold."

She stared at me, horrified. "Two boxes?"

"I'm sure Edward would even send the money for one."

"Three boxes?"

"Yes. You've already got a good start."

"A good start?" she asked incredulously. "Three boxes is nothing! Amanda's mom

works at the hospital! Do you know how many people are there that'll buy

cookies? And Melody's dad works in a factory with, like, hundreds of people!

There's no way I'll win!"

"Win?" I asked. "Is there a prize?"

"Yes, of course," she said. "The person who sells the most gets a bike."

"You already own a bike."

"But this is a new bike!"

"I'll buy you a new bike."

She groaned. "It's not the same."

Her dramatics made my head spin. "What, do you want me to write you a

check?" I asked. "For how much? Ten boxes? Fifty boxes? A hundred?"

"No, that's cheating," she said, shaking her head. "They'll be mad if you paid and

I didn't actually sell any. You can't just buy first place."

I wanted to tell her she was wrong, but figured it wasn't the time for a lesson on

the reality of life. "Then what do you want, Chelsea?"

"To sell cookies to a bunch of people," she replied. "A lot of them."

She stared at me imploringly and I realized at that moment that it wasn't about

the bike, or even the cookies for that matter. It was about standing out,

succeeding. Proving herself.

If ever there was a child suited for me, it would be her.

"Fine," I replied, folding the paper and sticking it in my pocket. She was one of

only two people in the world who could argue with me and actually win. "I'll sell

your cookies, but I'm telling you now - you will see this through. You took an

oath. There will be no walking away from this when you get bored. Do you

understand me?"

"Yes, sir," she said, a smile curving her lips. "Thank you, Alec."

She never called me Dad, and she likely never would. She never even referred to

me as her father, but the sentiment was there. I was her protector. I supported

her. She needed me.

And, as much as I hated admitting it, I probably needed her, too.

"You're welcome."

"You're awfully composed for a man who just witnessed a mass murder."

I looked over at Agent DiFronzo and shifted my position, the metal handcuffs

secured to my wrists clanging against the table. "You're awfully composed for

having witnessed the carnage," I countered.

He shrugged casually, as if it hadn't really bothered him. It had, though. I could

tell. "Side effect of the job," he said. "I suppose it's the same for you, huh?"

I shook my head. "I don't see much death owning a nightclub," I replied.

"Occasional overdose, maybe. But other than that..."

"Cut the shit," he said, not even giving me a chance to finish. "If you're just a

business owner, why are you so calm right now? What's your excuse?"

"My excuse? Well, first of all, I didn't witness a mass murder."

He stared at me, torn between confused and angry. "Are you going to seriously

deny being there at all?"

"No, I didn't say I wasn't there. I just said I didn't witness a mass murder," I

replied. "What I witnessed was a shootout. There's a big difference. You should

know that, being a federal agent and all."

"Oh, yes, and a business owner such as yourself would be able to distinguish that

difference, huh?"

I shrugged. "I watch TV."

"I'm sure you do."

VIII -X Marks the Spot

July 2007

43 years old

Phoenix, AZ

I didn't think about it at all. There wasn't a single moment where I stopped and

thought, 'this is wrong.' There was no second-guessing, no hesitation. I just

reacted.

The moment Jane lunged at Edward, I pulled out my gun, aimed it and squeezed

the trigger.

The deafening sound of gunshots ripped through the barn and Jane's body

dropped instantly. She swung the shovel reflexively, slamming it into Edward with

the very last bit of life left in her.

Charles sprung into action, but he didn't get very far. I turned the gun on him,

pumping him full of bullets. He collapsed on top of Jane, his body a bloody heap.

Edward cursed, on the verge of screaming. He was panicked, irrational, emotional

and volatile.

It took everything in me not to turn the gun on him next.

I steadily checked my mirrors as I drove through the city, intentionally making

wrong turns and going out of my way as I weaved through traffic, making sure I

wasn't being followed. It took me nearly an hour to get to a run-down section of

the city that should've taken half that, maneuvering through back roads and past

the abandoned factories that people barely even looked at anymore. They'd been

shipped overseas long ago, the jobs taken from the locals and given to foreigners

willing to work for pennies on the dollar. The factories used to sustain the

surrounding neighborhoods, but now forced the people to steal just to be able to

feed their loved ones.

And the government claimed we ruined Chicago. They said La Cosa Nostra

destroyed families, degraded the people and made it hard for others to make an

honest living. They truly believed eradicating us would solve the cities problems

and bring down the explosive crime rate.

I think people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. Corporations, with the

governments help, put a hell of a lot more people out of commission than we

ever could. If they couldn't find a job, they had to survive somehow.

I pulled my car in beside the large warehouse, concealing it between two

buildings so anyone who happened to drive past wouldn't see. I slipped out and

quickly made my way inside, making sure to secure the main door behind me.

The place was dark, the few windows that existed boarded up. It smelled of mold

and stale cigarettes, trash scattered through out the place that had been there

for years. The building was infested with rats and I could see them scurry past,

ducking away from eyesight as much as possible, but there were more of them

than there were hiding spots.

I made my way to the back of the warehouse, to a sectioned off portion with no

exit to the outside. It had once been a break room or office, I assumed, from the

fact that the ceiling was lower and the area was enclosed in.

The moment I stepped inside I saw Frank Mancini, along with two of the older

guys from his crew. Frank was my age, mid-forties, and already starting to bald.

He'd been fit when he was younger, quite the ladies man, but his days of

womanizing were long gone. His stomach jutted out so far now I was certain he

couldn't see his feet anymore, much less his dick.

"Boss," Frank said. I nodded at him, doing the same to the other two when they

addressed me. I wasn't sure of their names, not even caring.

Huddled in the corner, frightened, was Marcello. He was dirty and disheveled,

wearing only a pair of pants. He looked quite pitiful and although he quietly cried,

I wasn't at all sympathetic to his pain. The truth was, he hadn't felt suffering yet.

"Marcello, the man of the hour, it's great to see you! I'm glad you finally decided

to come in."

"Boss..."

"Ah ah ah," I cut him off before he could get anything out. "You see, that's not

how this is going to work. Your opportunity to explain has already passed. You

missed your chance to talk when you tried to run. I'm not interested in your

excuses. All I want, Marcello, is penance."

He stared at me with horror filled eyes as I continued. "If you take your

punishment and I feel like you've adequately repented and you understand the

necessity of following my orders, you'll be forgiven. It's as simple as that. I'll give

you a pass and let you go on your way. But that's only if I'm satisfied and,

unfortunately, I'm not an easy man to please."

"I'll do anythi-"

Hauling my foot back, I lunged it forward, kicking him right in the face. He cried

out, trying to block himself defensively as he huddled further into the corner.

"No talking," I spat. "I thought we already established that time has passed."

He whimpered but otherwise didn't speak. I glanced around, looking for the

supplies, and Frank kicked the large black duffel bag toward me. He was

prepared for me, as usual. As the old saying goes - it wasn't his first rodeo.

I picked the bag up and tossed it on a worn wooden table that had been left

behind, unzipping it to pull out the large section of rope.

I motioned for the two soldiers to pull Marcello to his feet and I stood behind him,

tightly tying his wrists together. I left no wiggle room, the thick rope digging into

his flesh as the friction burned his skin. After ensuring the knots wouldn't budge,

I dragged him over to the center of the room. He provided very little resistance,

few ever fighting back when they reached this point. They knew fighting meant

certain death, whereas they still held the belief they were strong enough to

survive.

Too bad I'd never met a man that was.

Above our heads and along the walls of the enclosure, portions of the framework

of the building were exposed, leaving what appeared to be an elaborate maze of

steal beams. I took the loose end of the rope and threw it up over one beam

above us so it dangled down on the other side. Frank grabbed it, tugging just

enough rope to tie the other end to an exposed piece of steal along the wall.

"This might hurt a bit," I warned. Panic flared in Marcello's eyes as I motioned

toward the other two, signaling them to help. They pulled on the other end of the

rope that Frank had, giving him enough slack to tie it tighter. The more they

pulled, the further Marcello's arms were forced into the air behind him, and after

a moment Marcello had no place to go but up. Inch by inch his feet steadily rose

from the ground, his cries growing louder with every tug. The weight of his body

was being held by his wrists, most of the strain placed on his shoulders. Reverse

hanging, they called it, or simply "the ropes". It had been used to torture many

men over the years for information, the excruciating pain easily loosening

tongues.

The Viet-Cong had done it to Senator John McCain. He had been strong enough to

survive.

After he was a few feet from the ground I told them they could stop, all three

men breathing a sigh of relief as they secured the rope for the last time. Not

Marcello, though. There would be no relief for him.

"This position you're in is called Strappado. The more you move, the more

damage will be done to your arms. If you hope to ever be able to use them again,

you should probably stay still."

I pulled my pocket knife out and opened the blade, twirling it in my hands. "When

you took your oath, you swore your loyalty to us. In onore della Famiglia, la

Famiglia e abbraccio. In honor of the Family, I embrace the Family. Do you

remember those words? Do you remember promising silence, swearing to obey

the Omerta with love?"

He nodded ever so slightly, trying to remain silent despite the pain.

"Where was the loyalty when you were going to the cops?"

The blade against the right side of his neck, I pressed lightly, just enough to nick

the skin.

"Where was the honor when you turned your back on your family?"

I pressed it to the other side, a small drop of blood oozing from the superficial

cut.

"Where was the obedience when I called you in and you didn't show?"

I ran the blade down his chest, from the dip in his throat down to his navel.

"Where was the love, Marcello? Where was the heart?"

I sliced an 'X' over the spot his heart lay and he grunted, gritting his teeth as

blood streamed down his chest. I itched to plunge it in but kept my composure,

not wanting to kill him.

Yet, anyway.

Even though she was small in stature, Jane carried herself like she towered over

everyone. She liked to push people around and they would cower away from her,

fearful. There was no telling what she was capable of, because she was a loose

cannon. One minute she'd be fine, the next she'd be a runaway torpedo, and you

never knew exactly where she was going to strike. She portrayed herself as

tough, self-assured and indestructible. Invincible. Bulletproof.

Pity for her she really wasn't.

So as I carried my sister's lifeless body to the car, I was almost surprised by how

light she was. She seemed so fragile. Vulnerable. Harmless.

Hollow.

Maybe it was fitting, after all.

The truth was, Jane was always insecure. She lashed out and made everyone feel

low about themselves, because it was the only time she ever felt high. She

would've never admitted it, but she knew as well as I did that our being born had

been a mistake.

I sometimes wondered if we'd been born without souls. People with souls couldn't

hurt indiscriminately. People with souls had a conscious. They were empathetic.

They were good.

We were none of that.

Esme used to blame it on my mother. She said we became the way we were

because of how we were treated, that we'd learned to detach and to not care

about anyone else. Survival mechanism, she called it. I believed it was deeper

than that. There was some malfunction in our DNA, some gene that had been

given to us from my parents. A tainted bloodline, when mixed, created monsters.

It was a gene I'd certainly never pass on.

Esme claimed the fact that I refused to continue the cursed bloodline was proof I

was good. Proof that, regardless of everything, I wasn't empty inside. I always

thought it was just simple logic.

Logic. If I were really being logical, I'd say I was probably the way I was because

my mother stayed drunk the entire nine months she was pregnant.

The point being, as I situated Jane in the car, preparing to stage an accident that

would incinerate most of her remains, I felt not a twinge of guilt. There was no

remorse. No shame. I didn't grieve. I couldn't even care. She was my sister, my

flesh and blood. We'd shared a womb.

And I felt... nothing.

Where was my soul?

"You're a shame, a disgrace. You're pathetic, not an ounce of honor in you. If we

have nothing in this world, we at least have our word, but you don't even have

that. I can't trust it. You swore your life on something and then went back on it

like it meant nothing to you. Does it mean nothing to you? Are you that brazen?"

"No, Boss, I swear..."

I hauled my fist back to punch him in the mouth, losing my temper and wanting

his silence. When my hand connected with his jaw, the blade of the knife sliced

my palm and I dropped it. It hit the floor and I frowned when I saw the blood

seeping out of the cut on my hand.

"Are you okay?" Frank asked from across the room.

"I'm fine," I said, shaking it off. My exhaustion was taking it's toll and I was

getting sloppy, something I couldn't permit happening anymore. "I'm just sick

and tired of insolence. Why must people constantly test me? Do I look weak? Do

they think I'm ignorant?"

"Absolutely not, sir," one of the other guys said. "It's them that are ignorant."

Frank and the other man agreed quickly but I shrugged them off. I wasn't in the

mood to have my ass kissed. I just wanted to know the truth.

I picked the knife up again. "I heard you were laughing when you got out of the

car with that cop," I said, slicing the corner of his mouth, about a quarter of an

inch up his cheek. He cried out as I did the other side, forcing a smile onto his

face. "Laughing, like this is all just a big joke to you. Like I'm a joke to you. Is

that what it is?"

He shook his head frantically and I froze as the sound of snickering cut through

the air, but it didn't come from Marcello. I glanced past him, my anger

skyrocketing, and saw one of the guys with a smile on his face. "Is something

funny?" I asked him. "Do I amuse you?"

"Oh, no! It's just, you know," he said, trying to straighten himself out but he

cracked another smile. "Nevermind. Sorry, sir."

I shook my head as I closed the knife, returning it to my pocket. Reaching into

the bag again, I grabbed the Bernzomatic propane blowtorch and slowly

unscrewed the back of it to release the gas. The hissing noise registered with

Marcello's ears and he stared at me with horror as he started to cry again. "So

burns this saint, so will my soul," I recited another portion of the oath as I hit the

trigger on the blowtorch. The flame instantly ignited and I held it to his bare feet.

He screamed, the action ripping his face open along the cuts as the piercing

sound echoed through the vacant warehouse. He writhed, desperately fighting

against his restraints as the flame scorched him, the sickening stench of burning

flesh immediately surrounding us. He fought so hard both of his arms ripped from

their sockets, his body horribly disfigured within a matter of seconds.

Blood streamed down his face, coating his chest. "Please!" he screamed, sobbing

loudly. "Please stop! Please, God, I'm begging you! I'm sorry! I swear I didn't tell

them anything. Oh, God, it burns! It fucking burns!"

His feet started turning black as he grew even more frantic, his pleading turning

incoherent. The more he screamed, the more the skin on his face ripped, and the

more he tried to fight, the worse it injured his arms.

I turned off the blowtorch after a moment, screwing the back in again to stop the

flow of gas. Marcello continued to cry out, sobbing and begging for help as I

dropped the blowtorch to the ground and shook my head. "Blood in, blood out," I

said. "You knew the rules."

I turned away from him, unable to take the sight of the charred flesh. I could

only imagine how much agony he was in, knowing I, myself, had once been close

to that same fate. Had Aro discovered my involvement with Carlisle in the

Isabella cover up, I likely would've ended up hanging in a warehouse somewhere,

too.

"What do you want to do with him?" Frank asked after a moment.

"Please let me go," Marcello begged. "You said you'd give me a pass! I'm sorry,

God, I'm so fucking sorry!"

I shook my head. "Let him die."

Marcello's cries grew even louder upon my words. "Why? God, please! Why?"

"You want to know why?" I asked. He nodded frenetically, blood and snot and

tears covering his face. The sight of it made my stomach churn and I felt dizzy for

a second, almost as if I were going to pass out. I regained my composure quickly,

though, not letting it show as I answered. "I told you not to talk. That's why."

I turned and started to walk away, needing to sit down. I heard the gunshots

immediately as Frank put a bullet in Marcello, silencing his cries. "Why the hell

did you laugh?" Frank chastised the other man, his voice scathing. Frank was his

boss and he knew that when it came down to it, he was accountable for all of

their actions. He already had one man go astray. He couldn't risk another.

"Sorry, Frank, I didn't mean any disrespect," he said. "It's just, that scene in

Goodfellas with Tommy DeVito and Henry Hill, where Tommy asks him if he

thinks he's funny like a clown. Man, I loved that shit. He just reminded me of it."

The moment those words registered, something in me snapped. I reached into

my coat and pulled out my gun, turning back around toward the room. The man

didn't have time to react or even realize what I was doing, for that matter. I

aimed and pulled the trigger, a bullet ripping right through his skull within a

fraction of a second. He dropped to the ground instantly while the other two

cursed, backing away quickly in shock.

"Does anyone else have something they'd like to say?" I spat, looking between

the men. "Thomas DeSimone, the man Tommy Devito was modeled after, was

despicable, and Henry Hill was a rat! This isn't a movie! This is real life! I won't

tolerate people comparing me to that!"

They stared at me with shock, flinching as I waved the gun around. "I agree,"

Frank said, holding his hands up defensively. "He was out of line."

I lowered my weapon when my senses came back to me and returned it to my

holster, glancing around the room. "Clean this up. Thoroughly. I don't care what

you do but I bled in here."

"Absolutely, sir," Frank said. "I'll handle it."

I walked out, seeing the sun had set while I was inside. I climbed behind the

wheel of the car and sat there for a moment, taking deep breaths as I tried to

center myself. Before I could start the car up, my phone started ringing and I

pulled it out, seeing the phone number for the club flashing on the screen.

"What now?" I grumbled.

The hot Phoenix sun was blinding and made my eyes hurt. I was sweaty and

exhausted, both mentally and physically. I needed a break, a rest, but I knew

that time would have to wait. There was still too much left to do.

I pulled up in front of the large house and climbed out of the car, straightening

my tie as I headed for the door. I knocked when I reached it, hearing the

aggravated voice yelling instantly. It took less than a minute for her to appear,

her expression a mask of confusion when she saw me standing there.

"Mother," I said in greeting. "How are you?"

"Spare me the bullshit. You don't care," she said. "Why are you here, Alec?"

"I have something I need to speak with you about."

She looked curious. Hopeful, even. "Good news?"

Depends on who you asked, I thought. "Uh, not particularly, no."

"Why am I not surprised?" she muttered, shaking her head. "Bad news seems to

follow you around, like a black cloud. You suck the life out of everything."

"Maybe we should go inside," I suggested, not in the mood for her theatrics. "You

might want to sit down."

"Why?"

I groaned. She wasn't going to make it easy. "Can I come in or not?"

She laughed bitterly, stepping aside and motioning for me to enter. "By all

means, come on in. After all, it is your house, isn't it? Who am I to say you aren't

allowed? I'm no one, nothing."

I stepped past her into the house, not bothering with a response, and she

slammed the door behind me. Her footsteps were hard against the wooden floor

as she followed me into the large den. I lingered by the door as she took a seat in

my father's favorite leather chair, a bottle of wine on the table in front of her. She

grabbed it, tipping it over and pouring the last few drops into a glass. The empty

bottle clattered to the floor, discarded. She started to drink from the glass but

hesitated, looking at me.

"Oh, did you want some?" she asked, holding it out to me. "It's all I have left but

you may as well take it. I mean, you took everything else from me - my money,

my house, my life, my slave."

She sneered the last word. After all this time, she still held a grudge. "You told

me to take her."

"Yeah and look what you did with her! You just let that Cullen boy take her!"

I shook my head. We'd been through it a dozen times and she would never

understand. She couldn't understand, for that matter. "I'm not here to argue with

you about Elizabeth."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because something has happened," I replied. "There's been an accident."

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "What kind of an accident? What happened?"

"It's Jane," I said. "She's been in a..."

Before I could finish my statement she jumped up and started screaming. "What

did you do, Alec? Huh? What did you do to her?"

"Calm down."

"Calm down? You expect me to calm down? Where is she? What happened?"

"There was an accident."

"Enough with the bullshit," she spat. "I've been a part of this world longer than

you. I know what goes on, so don't tell me there was a fucking accident because

there wasn't! What did you do? Tell me!"

I shook my head. "There was an accident."

The moment I said the words she threw her glass at me, the wine splashing out

all over the floor as it flew to my right. It hit something and shattered, but I

didn't bother looking. I didn't even flinch. She didn't intimidate me anymore. She

was weak. A coward. A selfish wench. I could snap her like a twig, strangle the

life from her and, much like Jane, not feel an ounce of regret.

"Is she dead?" she asked, her voice bordering on screeching. "Tell me, damnit! Is

she dead?"

"Yes."

"You piece of shit," she spat, lunging at me. "You killed her, didn't you? You

fucking killed her!"

I grabbed a hold of her to restrain her, pinning her arms at her side. She fought

me with all she had, her voice scathing as she screamed at me. She called me

every name imaginable, things that should never come from a lady's mouth

echoing through the house.

She managed to break loose after a moment and spun around to face me,

swinging her arm. Her hand connected with my face. Anger surged through me

and she must've known from my expression, because she suddenly panicked. She

stared at me with horror, the color draining from her face. She took a step back,

almost upon instinct. A step away from the predator. A step toward safety.

Stumbling, she nearly fell, but I grabbed a hold of her to keep her upright. I

grasped her by the throat, squeezing tightly. She choked, struggling for air as she

started pawing at my hands, trying to pry them off. I walked her backward

toward the couch, refusing to loosen my grip. Her fake fingernails dug into my

hands, tearing at my skin.

"There was an accident," I said coolly. "That's it. An accident. And if you ever tell

anyone differently, you'll find yourself with the same fate. Do you hear me,

Mother?"

She nodded, her eyes frantic. I let go of her, shoving her back onto the chair. She

gasped loudly, grasping her throat as she forced air into her lungs. She looked

horrified and burst into sobs, her body shaking. "How could you?" she cried. "How

could you do this to us? To our family?"

"Family?" I asked. "Now you call us a family? You wanted nothing to do with us

our entire lives, and suddenly you want to act differently? You can't have it both

ways. You can't call us a family after what you've done."

"What I've done?" she asked incredulously. "Look what you've done! You've

ruined everything! My daughter! Oh God, my poor baby girl!"

I stared at her with disbelief, shaking my head. She had nerve, I had to give her

that much. "Spare me the bullshit," I said, throwing her worlds back at her.

"Don't act like you care."

"You're sick!" she cried. "I can't believe you'd do this! You're worse than your

father was! I should've smothered you in your sleep when I had the chance! I

wish you would've never been born!"

I laughed dryly as I turned around and started to walk away. "So do I, mother," I

said. "So do I."

IX -A Fool and His Money

March 2008

44 years old

Chicago, IL

The ringing of my cell phone cut Esme off, a tense silence falling over the table.

We were having dinner together for the first time in nearly a week. I'd promised

this evening to her, just as Aro had promised the evening to me. There weren't to

be any interruptions. No work tonight. No one was to stop by. My phone wasn't

supposed to ring.

I should've known better.

I ignored it at first and Esme sighed loudly, dramatically. "Go ahead and get it,"

she said. I could hear her disappointment. It bothered me.

"No," I replied. "They can wait."

The phone continued to ring. "It could be important," she said.

"What's more important than dinner with you?"

She sighed. Again. "What if it's Edward?"

"It's not Edward," I said. "He wouldn't call me. If he was in trouble, he'd call

you."

He hadn't been in Chicago long and we all knew he was a complete wreck. Aro

wouldn't send him on serious jobs alone yet so I wasn't that concerned about him

out in the streets. The only trouble Edward would find was personal trouble, and

he was much to smart to ask me to bail him out of binds. If he got himself into it,

he could get himself out of it.

"But what if it's someone calling about him?"

"It isn't," I said. At least, I hoped not. "He's fine, Esme."

The ringing stopped. I turned back to my food but she just stared at me. "Aren't

you at least going to look?"

I groaned when I realized she wasn't going to drop it and grabbed my phone. I

glanced at the screen, figuring it would be someone like my mother, but instead

was met with the last name I ever expected to see.

Isabella Swan.

I blinked a few times, certain there had to be a mistake. "I was right," Esme said,

seeing my expression. "It's important, isn't it?"

"Yes," I replied. Isabella wouldn't call me for no reason. She would avoid me at

all cost, unless she was left with no other choice.

She laughed humorlessly. "See? I knew it. How many times do I have to tell you

I'm always right until you finally listen?"

"At least once more," I replied, glancing at her cautiously. "I should probably

return the call."

"Go ahead," she said, waving me off. "Do what you need to, but I get a rain

check on this dinner."

"Of course you do," I replied, standing up from the table. I headed into the

hallway as I dialed her number, listening as it rang and rang. I was about to give

up, annoyed she wasn't answering my call, when the line picked up.

"Sir."

"Isabella? Is there a problem?"

"Yeah. I mean, Uh, yes, sir. I'm really sorry to bother you."

"It's fine. Just tell me what happened."

"Well, I was at the park, and there was this man. He seemed like a good person.

He was talking to me and I was trying to be nice. I didn't think it would hurt

anything. I thought he was harmless."

She was rambling. I didn't know where she was going with the story, but it was

obvious she wasn't going to get there fast.

"Did he harm you, Isabella?" I asked, hoping to speed things up. "Were you

assaulted?"

"Uh, no. I mean, um, he didn't touch me or anything. It's just, he asked me for

my cell phone and..."

"You were robbed?" I asked. If I were thinking rationally, I would've known the

answer to that without asking. She'd called me from her cell phone, so clearly she

still had it. But her nervousness was frustrating.

"What? Oh, no. He didn't take it, he just borrowed it. I thought it was okay, but

then Dr. Cullen showed up."

"Carlisle was there?" I asked, stunned. Nothing about the conversation made

sense. Why was Carlisle in Seattle?

"Yes, I don't know where he came from but he was mad. He yelled at the guy for

bothering me."

"Okay," I replied. "Is that it? Some guy bothered you and Carlisle intervened?"

"Well, sort of," she said. "Dr. Cullen said he was supposed to leave me alone

because he promised."

"Promised? Who was it, Isabella?"

There was a tense silence and I knew the answer before she even said it. "He was

an officer. A federal agent, sir."

I'm a fan of horror movies. Friday the 13th, Nightmare on Elm Street, Halloween,

Psycho, The Exorcist, Night of the Living Dead, Texas Chainsaw Massacre... you

name it, I've seen it. There was something about a plot driven solely by

suspense, that played on the average person's worst fears, that intrigued me.

People feared the unknown, the monsters that lurked in the shadows, pouncing

when they least expected it. It got their adrenaline flowing, their heart pounding.

It was thrilling watching them panic.

None of it scared me, though. I feared no monsters. Nothing caught me off guard

anymore. No one pounced when I didn't expect it.

Having said that, however, there was one movie that did frighten me -

Groundhog Day.

The idea of a day that never ended, one that constantly played out again and

again until you got it right, tapped into one of my only fears in life - the fear that

this was it. That I would just continue as I was, no rest, no end in sight. It was

the one thing about being a made man that unnerved me. There was no retiring

from the Mafia. There was no opportunity to someday get it right. We didn't age

out of the system. When we grew old, we were simply disposed of.

It was something we had in common with slaves. We lived the life we had, until

someone decided we shouldn't have it anymore.

Part of the reason I vouched for Isabella is because it was what my family

wanted, what they needed, but that wasn't the entire reason. It wasn't even the

main reason. No, I vouched for her because I realized I had a chance to give

someone else the one thing I couldn't have. Between my money and power I

could have nearly everything I wanted in life... Everything, that was, except more

life. A second chance at living. Another day. A different day.

Someday, I'd be killed. There was no doubt in my mind about it. I hoped it was a

long time from now, but that wasn't guaranteed. It could have been any moment.

Every breath could've been my last and it would have been my own doing. That

didn't scare me. The dying didn't frighten me. Living, with no tomorrow, did.

It was how I felt some days, how I felt at that moment, as I pulled my car into

the parking lot of the club. Sonny and Cher didn't play on my radio, but the song

was the same, anyway.

I parked near the entrance and climbed out, starting toward the door. I happened

to glance down at myself before reaching it, seeing the small splatter of blood on

my white shirt. I froze in spot, quickly buttoning my jacket up to conceal it before

going inside.

It only took me mere seconds to find who I was looking for. He sat at the end of

the bar, a glass of ice water in front of him. His eyes scanned the place

attentively. He was watching. Listening. Hoping. Pity for him-he'd find nothing.

He spotted me as I approached, his expression a mixture of arrogance and

annoyance. He hated me, loathed my existence, but a part of him loved the fact

that he was untouchable to me.

Or so he thought, anyway. I couldn't publicly intimidate him, couldn't use my

power, but there was nothing stopping me from breaking into his house while he

slept and slitting his throat.

And that was a fact that I loved.

"Federal Agent DiFronzo, what a surprise to see you here. Is there something I

can do for you?"

I didn't have to be a mind reader to know what he was thinking - I could go to

Hell, that's what I could do.

"Mr. Evanson," he said in greeting. "I'm just enjoying a drink."

"Of water? You can have water anywhere. Why don't you try some of our Scotch?

Or maybe an Aperol Spritz? You'd love it. You are one of us, after all." Rage

flashed in his eyes, the sight thrilling me. I enjoyed getting under his skin. "I

meant Italian, of course."

"Of course," he replied tersely.

I motioned for the bartender. "I'd like a double Scotch and bring Agent DiFronzo

here the same."

"That's not necessary," he interjected.

"Nonsense," I replied. "It's on the house."

"I shouldn't," he said.

"You should," I replied. "Unless, of course, you're working. This isn't business, is

it?"

He gave me a knowing look and I smiled. Of course it was business. It always

was.

"What business would I have here?" he bluffed.

"You tell me," I replied. "I was audited six months ago, my club surprise

inspected last month, and last week they tried to take my liquor license. It seems

the government has it out for me, so I wouldn't be surprised if the justice

department was the next to harass me."

"Well, I assure you, Mr. Evanson, we don't harass people. We only involve

ourselves in situations if there's just cause."

"Good, because, as flattering as it may be, I've done nothing to warrant the

attention. My employees are well paid and even have health insurance. Better

insurance than your government probably supplies you with, actually."

"You must do a lot of business to be able to afford that," he replied, glancing

around at the other patrons. There were maybe a dozen at most. "This must be a

slow night."

The bartender returned with our drinks and I picked mine up. "I do quite well for

myself, but yes, it's a slow night," I replied. "It's Sunday, the Lord's day. The only

people who find themselves at a bar today are degenerates and sinners."

"Says the man holding a Scotch," he said.

I smiled again. He might have been a nuisance, but at least he was sometimes

entertaining. It was a pity I would probably have to kill him someday. "Have a

good night, Agent DiFronzo," I said. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you again."

"Oh, definitely," he replied as I walked away.

"We need to have you relocated for awhile, just until this passes," I said. "Is

there anywhere you've wanted to go but haven't been?"

"California."

The answer came quickly. I had expected her to say Chicago. "Okay. I doubt

anyone will think to look for you there."

"No, no one knows I wanted to go there," she said. "Well, I mean, except for..."

"Edward's not a concern," I said, knowing where she was going with it. "He won't

try to contact you."

"You're right," she said quietly. "He won't."

Her voice was strained, like my words had hurt her. I shook my head. I never

quite understood people who put themselves in that situation. They were their

own undoing and for what? What was the point? Edward and Isabella were both

struggling because of the way their lives were. Why not just struggle together? At

least then there wouldn't be so much unnecessary suffering.

It wasn't any of my business, though. It wasn't my life - it was theirs. If they

wanted to torture themselves, so be it. Who was I to judge?

"I'll make some arrangements for you," I said. "Find a place for you to live and

get you some paperwork. Do you have preference on a name?"

"A name?"

"Yes, you'll need a new name."

"I can't keep Isabella Swan?"

Her question was strange to me. "Why would you want to?" I asked. "Swan was

your fathers name. I wouldn't think you'd want to keep it."

"Yeah, but it was my mother's, too," she said. "The one I knew, anyway. My

name was kind of the only thing she ever gave me."

I almost felt sorry for her. "Well, you can keep Isabella because it's fairly

common, but Swan will have to go. How about Smith? It's not too far off, easy to

remember."

"That's fine," she said. She didn't sound like it was fine, but that was the best I

could do for her for the time being.

"Good. Is there anything else you need?"

"No, sir." She paused before backtracking. "Well, there is one thing."

"What's that?"

"School," she said. "Will I still be able to go?"

I could hear her hope, her yearning. It was important to her. She didn't have

Edward, nor did she have any family. She was leaving her friends. Would I have

to take this from her, too?

"It won't be a problem," I said. "I think I can figure it out for you."

"So, I was thinking," Benjamin said from his seat across the room. Much to my

surprise, he'd actually shown up to my office twenty minutes earlier than I told

him to. I thought for sure he'd pass out when he got home and not show.

"That's your first mistake," I said. "Or your second, actually. Your first mistake

was speaking without permission."

"And my second was thinking?" he asked. He sounded partially amused, but

equally confused.

"Yes," I replied. "Thinking gets people into trouble. Your job isn't to brainstorm."

"What is it?" he asked. I looked at him, not entirely sure what he meant by that.

"My job. What is it?"

"If you don't know by now, we have a serious problem."

He laughed, even though there was nothing funny. "Don't worry, Boss. I get the

big picture. It's just, not many are lucky enough to get to hang out in your

presence. Most of the ones who do see you, well, it's because their luck ran out.

So I was just wondering..." he paused. "Nevermind, I'm not supposed to be

talking. Sorry."

"It's fine. You were wondering how you got so lucky?" I asked. I suspected it was

another case of sarcasm but I didn't blame him for it. I wasn't exactly the

greatest company.

"Yes. I wondered if maybe it was because my father..."

"It has nothing to do with who your father is," I said before he could even

suggest the notion. "Frankly, I don't care who anyone is related to in this

business, not even my own flesh and blood."

"Really?" He seemed genuinely surprised and that aggravated me. What did he

take me for, a pushover? "Because Edward was down in Vegas, I just thought..."

"You thought I gave him that job because he was family? That I showed

favoritism?"

"Uh, well..."

"There's nothing easy about Edward's job," I said. "Here people follow my orders.

That's it. I say jump, they jump. I say go, they go. I say answer, they answer.

There's no room for interpretation, no need to think. They just have to act.

Maybe it's difficult, having me constantly telling you what to do, but imagine how

difficult this job would be if you didn't have it. If you had to guess what I would

want and react on your own, hoping you were doing the right thing. I tell you to

do something, you know you're making me happy. Edward, he does things and

just hopes like hell I don't get mad. It's not easy at all."

Benjamin seemed stunned. "I didn't..."

"You didn't think about that? I'm not surprised. It isn't really your strong suit,

Benjamin."

"But it is Edward's," he said. "Sorry, Boss. I get it now."

No, he didn't, because he was wrong. Thinking wasn't Edward's strong suit. Far

from it, considering he was too emotional and irrational to be logical. His courage

was his strength. He was brave enough to make those decisions and later face

me for judgement, where others would cover their tracks and hide to avoid my

wrath. My wife thought my decision to relocate Edward was solely to protect him,

but she was wrong. I was protecting myself, too.

"Out of sheer curiosity, Benjamin, what was it you were thinking to begin with?"

"Oh, I was just thinking if you ever needed someone new in Vegas, you know..."

"You'd be the man for the job?" I asked. He nodded. "And do you still think that?

Do you think you'd like to be the one to have to pull me away in the middle of the

night when you messed up?"

He shook his head. "Not at all."

The sound of knocking echoed through the room and as expected, it was weak. I

shook my head and glanced at my watch. Four minutes until nine. He was cutting

it close.

I ignored the sound, glaring at the door. I didn't have time for insolence today.

He either needed to man up or leave, because I wasn't going to wait for long.

Benjamin laughed when the second round of knocks came. "Talk about deja vu.

This sorta reminds me of that movie, you know..."

"Shut up, Benjamin," I said, closing my eyes in frustration. These people were

driving me to a breakdown. "I'm tired of hearing your voice. Make yourself useful

and get the door, before time comes and goes and I have to kill someone else

today."

He cringed at the mention of killing and opened the door so the boy could step

inside. He was nervous again, fidgeting more than he had been the day before.

He paused in front of my desk, eyeing me warily. "Boss," he said.

"Do you have something for me?" I asked. He nodded, reaching into his coat to

pull out an envelope. It was significantly larger than the one from yesterday. He

held it out to me, his hand shaking violently. I snatched it from him, annoyed.

"Do I frighten you?"

He blanched. I could see his dilemma. Does he admit it and face being marked as

a coward, or does he deny it and risk offending me? "Sometimes, sir," he said

hesitantly, taking the middle ground.

"You should be frightened," I replied, opening the envelope and pulling out the

cash. It wasn't as organized as the day before, just stacks of crumpled up bills

loosely place together. He'd obviously gathered it in a hurry and I wondered

where he got it from, but decided not to ask. I suspected whatever his answer

was would only annoy me further.

"It's all there," he said as I started counting it.

"And you expect me to trust your word after you tried to rip me off?" I asked,

looking at him pointedly. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

Just once, when I asked that question, I wished someone would say "yes". It was

clear some of them believed so, considering the things they tried to pull. I wasn't

sure what I'd do if someone ever did, to be honest. I would probably be torn

between the need to kill them and wanting to shake their hand.

"No, sir," he said, remaining quiet as I counted out the rest. It took me about ten

minutes and I had to start over twice, having lost count due to my exhaustion.

The boy stood in place while I did it, each passing second seeming to put him

more on edge.

"$36,502," I said when I finished, shoving the money back into the envelope. I

opened the bottom drawer of my desk and tossed it onto a pile with a few others,

each similar and stuffed full of cash. Someone would hit the jackpot robbing my

office, as there had to be a few hundred thousand in there, but no one would

ever be brave enough to try. Or stupid, I supposed. Robbing me would be the

stupidest thing a person could ever do. "Don't ever do this again. You won't get a

second try next time. You cut me out of a deal, and I'll cut you. Period. You got

me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the paper Chelsea had

given me. I unfolded it and sat it on my desk. "Now give me $10."

"What?" He seemed genuinely confused. Rightfully so, but it annoyed me,

nonetheless.

"Did I stutter?" I asked. "I said give me $10."

"Uh, I'm not sure if I have it," he said, reaching into his pockets. He fumbled

around and pulled out a few crumpled up dollar bills, looking at me nervously as

he counted them out. "I have eight."

"I suppose that's fine," I replied, holding my hand out for it. He handed it over

and I pocketed the cash, hesitating briefly as I grabbed a pen. I stared at the

paper, realizing I still didn't know his name. I wrote an S on the line and marked

a one in the quantity column before waving him off. "Get out of my sight."

"Yes, sir."

He practically ran from the office and I sat the pen down before leaning back in

the chair. I gazed over at Benjamin, who was watching me apprehensively. His

expression was conflicted, like he had something to say but he was too frightened

to open his mouth. "What is it, Benjamin?"

He hesitated. "The number was wrong."

"What number?"

"The money," he clarified. "He owed you $36,562.50. He only gave you $36,502."

My brow furrowed as I tried to think back, but I couldn't recall the exact figure.

Everything was hazy. My memory was failing me. "Are you positive?"

"Absolutely."

"Why didn't you tell me when I was counting it?"

"You told me to shut up, Boss."

Smart ass. That was why he'd never make it in Las Vegas. He couldn't tell which

was the lesser evil in situations. "You know what happens to my employees when

their registers come up short, Benjamin?"

"They die?"

I groaned. It was irrational of me to be aggravated, but I was low on patience

and he was on my nerves. "I make them pay. It doesn't matter how much it is,

from fifty cents to thousands of dollars. They don't leave until I get what I'm

supposed to get. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes," he replied. "If someone rips you off, they have to pay."

"No, that's not what I'm saying. Will you listen for once?" I asked. "I'm saying

everyone has something they're responsible for. The people out there in the club,

running the registers, are responsible for that money. If they make a mistake,

they're held accountable, because that's their job."

"Ah, makes sense."

"Good, I'm glad. Because, you see, I'm sixty dollars and fifty cents short now.

And do you know what happens when my money's short and the employee

doesn't pay?" He shook his head hesitantly. "Then they die, Benjamin."

His expression was blank for a moment before the point of the conversation

seemed to dawn on him. He quickly stood up and walked over to my desk, pulling

out his wallet. He handed me a fifty dollar bill and I snatched it. He hesitated

before pulling out more cash, counting out $300. "Here's what I owe you from

last night, Boss."

I considered letting him keep it, since he didn't technically owe me, but the

simple fact that he couldn't remember that annoyed me. I took the money and

sat it down, holding my hand out for more. "$10. No, actually, for you it's $20."

He stared at me with confusion as he pulled his last twenty out of his wallet.

"That's all I have."

"That's fine," I said, taking it. I scribbled his name down on the paper and

randomly checked two boxes, not caring which they were. "The Girl Scouts

appreciate your business, I'm sure."

His eyes widened with surprise. "You're selling Girl Scout cookies?"

"What part of that was confusing?"

"Uh, none of it. It's just surprising."'

"I'm glad I can keep you on your toes," I replied.

"Wow, so they're ten dollars a box? That's ridiculous."

"No, they're something like three or four dollars."

His brow furrowed. "Why'd you say ten, then?"

I glanced at him, quirking an eyebrow. Did he really not know? "I always get a

taste, Benjamin. Always."

He laughed at my response. "You're siphoning money from the Girl Scouts? That's

kind of funny."

"I'm glad you see the humor, but no, I'm not taking their money. I'm taking

yours."

His expression fell quickly when he realized I was telling the truth. The Girl

Scouts would get their share and be none the wise. He was the one being ripped

off. "Oh."

"Not so funny now, huh?"

"No, not at all."

"Didn't think so," I said, shaking my head as I stood up and grabbed the paper.

"Now get out of here."

"Yes, sir."

He started out of my office but hesitated after a few steps. "You didn't mark me

down for Tagalongs, did you?"

"Excuse me?"

"The cookies. They weren't Tagalongs, were they?"

"What does it matter?" I asked. I didn't even know what a Tag-a-long was. I'd

never eaten a Girl Scout cookie in my life and didn't plan to start now.

"Well, I'm allergic to peanut butter, Boss," he said. "I can't have Tagalongs."

It took me a moment to understand what he was getting at and I laughed -

genuinely laughed - for the first time in quite awhile. My sides hurt and tears

came to my eyes as I tried to catch my breath. He was worried about the cookies

killing him, when he should've been more worried about me.

"I was wrong about you, Benjamin. You are funny, after all," I said, shaking my

head. "I never said you were getting the cookies. I told her I'd sell them. I said

nothing about actually delivering them."

"Delivery guy is here," Esme said as the sound of the doorbell echoed through the

house.

"Okay," I replied. Why was she telling me? Did she think I couldn't hear?

She stared at me for a moment as the doorbell rang again and I turned to her,

seeing the expectant look on her face. She saw my expression and shook her

head as she stood up. "Don't worry, Alec. I'll get it."

"Okay," I said again. "Thanks."

She groaned. "Sometimes I just don't know about you," she grumbled, grabbing

her purse as she headed for the door.

I smiled. If she wanted me to get it, all she had to do was ask.

She returned a moment later with the pizza and placed it on the coffee table

before sitting back down on the couch. I grabbed a slice. "This counts as your

rain check, you know."

She shook her head. "No, it doesn't. We're not even sitting at the table."

"So? There are no rules. You didn't set any criteria. You said dinner - this is

dinner."

"It doesn't count as a real dinner if we don't have plates or forks," she said.

"Yes, it does."

"No, it doesn't."

"Then what is this, if not dinner?"

She shrugged. "Call it a snack for all I care. It doesn't count as dinner."

"Then what's for dinner tonight?"

"Nothing," she said. "We're not having dinner tonight."

"Who doesn't have dinner?" I asked.

"We don't," she said. "Not when we order pizza."

I shook my head. She was one of the most stubborn people. "You're wrong."

"I'm right," she said.

Before I could counter, my phone rang. I tensed at the sound and Esme laughed.

"Okay, maybe I'm wrong, after all. Your phone's interrupting, so it must be

dinner."

I frowned. Sometimes it seemed she just enjoyed giving me a hard time. "I won't

answer it."

"You will," she said. "What if it's important?"

Same old argument. "It can wait."

"What if it's Edward?"

"It's not."

"What if it's about Edward?"

"It's not," I insisted, grabbing the phone and looking at it. I froze when I saw the

name on the screen-Edward Cullen.

As usual, she was right.

"Like I said, this doesn't count as my rain check."

X - Drop of a Hat

June 1982

18 years old

Chicago, IL

"Come on," Esme said, grabbing my hand and tugging on it. "It'll be fun."

I stood firmly in place and shook my head. "No way am I going in there, Esme."

"Why not?"

"Because, I'm just not."

She pouted, poking her bottom lip out. She looked completely absurd but

something about it made my chest tighten. "You sound like a petulant child."

"You look like one."

She rolled her eyes, essentially proving my point. "Oh, come on."

"No."

"I'll give you a Scooby snack."

My brow furrowed. "Excuse me?"

She laughed at my expression, tugging on my hand again. "You're so ridiculous

sometimes, Alec. Just for a little while. We won't stay long."

I hesitated before shaking my head. "I'd rather not."

"Please? For me?"

I stared at her, stunned. "Are you seriously begging?"

"Yes," she said, matter-of-factly. "What, do I need to get on my knees?"

She started to kneel in front of me and I quickly grabbed a hold of her, pulling

her back to her feet. I stared at her, horrified she would do that in public. Did she

not know what people would think? "What are you doing? You can't do that!"

She laughed. Again. I found nothing funny about it. "Well, I'm going in," she said,

letting go of my hand. "You can stay here if you want."

She started walking away and I glanced at my empty hand, something about it

feeling strange. I looked back over at Esme, who was casually strolling toward

the entrance. I debated briefly, part of me stubbornly planted there, while

another part was yearning to go after her. After a moment she glanced over her

shoulder at me, the feeling intensifying. Groaning, I shook my head. "This is

absurd," I grumbled, starting toward her.

She paused at the ticket booth and I jogged to catch up to her. "One please," she

said.

"Two," I quickly corrected her, pulling out my wallet.

"I can pay for my own," she said.

"Over my dead body," I stated, handing some cash to the woman working. She

gave me my change and I turned back to Esme as I stuffed it back in my wallet.

"Thank you."

I shrugged. "It was only $5."

She smirked, looking satisfied with herself, and grabbed my hand again. "Not for

paying," she said, leading me into the county fair. "For conceding."

Present Day

Chicago, IL

There's always this brief moment, whenever I finally come face-to-face with my

wife after going away, that it feels like I'm seeing her for the first time all over

again. My chest tightens and the air is suddenly thick, making it impossible to

breathe. We're suspended in time, nothing existing except for us. There's no

anger or hatred, no violence. No worry about the future or what will happen

tomorrow. It's only then and there, and it's only us.

My heart stalls that moment, when our eyes connect, before pounding so hard

that I can feel the blood surging under my skin. I get dizzy and my vision blurs

from the intensity as my body grows flushed. I worry, for a split second, that I'm

going to pass out, every ounce of strength and resolve I fight so hard to maintain

in my life disintegrating in an instant. I'm weak, vulnerable with my chest cracked

open, leaving me completely exposed.

It hurts, more than I ever expected such a thing to hurt. It feels like my body is

giving out on me. Rebelling. Revolting. It feels like I'm dying.

I've never felt more alive.

But, it's only a moment. A simple moment where, for once, I feel normal. I feel

peace. I feel like maybe, just maybe, the world isn't so horrible after all.

It's a pity it can't last.

As soon as I pushed the front door open at a quarter after ten, the first thing I

saw was my wife's brown eyes. Her expression was blank, her face a mask of

indifference, but those eyes told an entirely different story. She kept her cool, her

gaze almost icy, but inside she was frantic. Her worry quickly gave way to relief

as I stared at her, love and desperation screaming from behind those eyes. I

could practically feel her emotions from across the room, the sensations seeping

through my skin and into my bloodstream, infiltrating my system.

"You didn't call," she said. Her voice was low, her tone clipped.

"Sorry," I said. I meant it, too. Sorry wasn't a word I said often, and certainly not

one I took lightly. There was very little I allowed myself to feel remorse for, but

upsetting the one person who loved me was where I drew the line. She deserved

that much from me. "I didn't mean to worry you."

"But you did," she said, frowning. "We just talked about this, Alec. You can't do

this to me. I had no idea what was happening. You could've been hurt for all I

knew, or dead..."

"Not tonight, Esme," I said, shaking my head and cutting her off as I shut the

front door. "Please. I can't do this now."

She sighed, but otherwise remained quiet. I looked away from her when I saw

the flicker of disappointment, unable to deal with it. I hated being bad for the

only good thing in my life.

I headed upstairs to the bedroom and pulled off my jacket, tossing it in the

hamper as I slid out of my shoes. Esme stood in the doorway behind me,

watching as I undressed. She was already ready for bed, wearing a blue

nightgown with her hair pulled back. The tension radiating from her was palpable

and made the hairs on my neck stand up, an uneasiness in the pit of my

stomach.

I started unbuttoning my shirt as I turned back around to face her. "It's been a

long day," I said, feeling the need to try to explain before her frustration built up

to the point where she exploded. It didn't happen often, as she was the most

understanding person I'd ever met, but I could tell from the atmosphere that we

were getting dangerously close to that point.

"You're telling me."

"I really am sorry."

"I know you are, Alec," she responded. Her voice was softer, her expression

shifting. I pulled my shirt off and she held her hand out for it. "Give it here. I'll

get rid of it."

I glanced at it, confused, before remembering the blood. She must have seen it. I

hesitated too long for her liking and she grabbed it from my hand, muttering to

herself as she started to walk out.

She'd dispose of it downstairs, burning it to ash so it would be like it never

existed. Much like Marcello, all traces gone and no one would ever know except

for those involved.

I sometimes wondered if Esme understood what she was doing. She'd been an

accomplice after the fact more than once, helping me cover my tracks. It

sickened me to think about the fact that I involved her in my world as much as I

did, but Esme was not the type of woman you shielded from things. She wasn't

fragile or oblivious. If I ever tried to protect her from something dangerous for

her own good, I likely would need someone to protect me from her.

I unzipped my pants as she paused in the doorway, her forehead wrinkled. She

eyed the shirt cautiously and I knew what was coming next before it even

happened. "This isn't my nephew's blood, is it?"

I couldn't count how many times she'd asked me that question over the years.

"No."

"Thank God," she said, disappearing into the hallway. I was convinced the day I

had to answer "yes" to that would be the day my marriage ended.

I sincerely hoped that day never came.

I stripped down to my boxers and sat down on the edge of the bed, running my

hands down my face. After a moment I lay back and closed my eyes, too

exhausted to put on any clothes. I laughed when that thought registered,

remembering Edward expressing the same sentiment. Except, he'd been

exhausted because of the life he'd created. I was exhausted from the ones I'd

taken away.

"I want that one," Esme said, pointing at the large stuffed bear hanging at the

very top.

"Why?"

She shrugged. "I don't know, I just do. It's cute. Can you get it for me?"

"I suppose," I replied, looking at the man standing behind the booth. He was

massive, his forearms covered in colorful tattoos and a blue bandanna on his

head. "How much?"

"A dollar a dart," he said. "Throw 'em at the balloons. Pop one, get a small prize,

three gets a medium prize and five for a big one."

"So $5," I said, pulling out some cash. I held it out to him and pointed at the

giant bear she wanted. "That one."

"You gotta throw these first and see how many balloons you hit," he said,

counting out five of the darts. "Then you see how many more you need."

I shook my head. "I won't need anymore."

He laughed like what I said amused him. "Whatever you say, man. I've been

working this booth for three years now and I've never seen anyone hit five in a

row."

"Well, you won't be able to say that after today," I replied, picking up one of the

darts. I glanced at Esme. "Pick a color."

"Uh, blue," she said. I turned back to the booth and threw the dart forcefully, the

metal tip instantly piercing the thick latex of the blue balloon.

"Next?" I asked, picking up the second dart.

"Yellow," she said. I threw the dart, popping a yellow balloon toward the top of

the board.

"Orange," she said, not even waiting for me to ask. The third dart busted the

orange balloon.

"Pink." I could hear the smile in her voice. She was enjoying it. I threw the forth

dart, popping a pink balloon. I picked up the last one, twirling it between my

fingers as I waited for her to choose. "Blue again."

I threw the dart, hitting a second blue balloon dead center. It popped and the

man stared at me with shock. I wasn't sure why. I'd already told him that was

going to happen. "That one," I said, pointing at the bear again. He nodded and

grabbed it, pulling it down.

"Man, you've got killer aim," he said, sounding awestruck. I nodded, taking the

prize from him and handing it to Esme.

If he only knew how true that was.

"So what now? Anything else you want me to shoot or throw?"

She laughed. "No, I'm good. How about we share a funnel cake."

"A what?"

"A funnel cake," she said. "You know, the deep fried goodness smothered in

powder sugar?"

I shook my head. "I've never heard of them."

She looked almost horrified. "How can that be? What do you eat at fairs?"

"Nothing," I replied. "This is the first time I've been to one."

She gasped. "You're shitting me?"

I laughed at her crass language. "No, I'm not shitting you, Esme,"I said. "My

mother wouldn't take us to these sort of things."

"So you've never ridden a ferris wheel?"

"No."

"Eaten cotton candy?"

"No."

"Bumper cars?"

"No."

She smiled, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "I lied earlier," she said. "I think

we will stay for a while. I'm popping your fair cherry."

As strange as it sounded, all I could do was laugh.

"What's so funny?"

I opened my eyes quickly, seeing Esme had already returned. "Just thinking

about Edward."

"Yeah?" she asked, strolling over to sit down beside me. "Did you get a chance to

see their new house?"

"Yes."

"Is it nice?"

"Yes."

"Did you see Libby?"

"Yes."

"How is she?"

I never understood the expression 'there are no stupid questions.' People asked

me stupid questions all the time. My wife, for example, was notorious for it. Of

course she believed they were valid things to ask, but I had to disagree.

Libby slept. And ate. And shit. And cried. She had no responsibilities. No worries.

No expectations placed upon her. How did she think Libby was?

"I don't know," I replied. "She didn't say."

Esme stared at me before laughing, the light hearted sound warming me from the

inside. "You think you're funny, don't you? I can tell you've been to Vegas with

that mouth."

I smirked, grabbing a hold of her and pulling her down onto the bed. "You like my

mouth," I said, leaning in to nuzzle in her neck. I kissed her skin, tasting her

flesh and inhaling. She smelled delicious, sweet with a hint of spicy, like a

cinnamon sugar blend.

"Ahhh, busted. I do," she replied. "I missed you."

"Hmmm, did you miss me... or my mouth?" I asked playfully, kissing across her

neck. She tilted her head back to give me more room, her hands running through

my hair. A chill ran down my spine.

"The mouth," she answered, her voice breathless. I laughed lightly, continuing to

kiss her skin. My hands explored her body, caressing her bare thighs and running

up under her nightgown. I stroked her hip, feeling the lace of her under

garments. My hand made its way up, across her stomach and to her breasts, my

fingertips grazing across her nipples. She moaned as I pinched one, rolling it

between my fingers. It perked up, her skin pebbling under my touch.

I shifted my position, quickly sitting up and grabbing the end of her nightgown.

She moved so I could pull it off of her and I tossed it across the room before

climbing off of the bed. I dropped to my knees on the floor in front of her,

running my hands up her thighs again before grasping the lace. She lifted her

hips, squirming as I finished stripping her of her clothes.

She spread her legs as I came up between them, licking and kissing at her flesh

as I went. Her hands found their way back into my hair, her grip holding me

there as I leaned in to taste her. The moment my lips came into contact with her

sensitive spot she shivered. "Definitely the mouth."

Another talent, I supposed. Another specialty. Unlike murder, however, this one I

was actually proud of.

I pushed two fingers inside of her, looking for her spot, as I sucked and nibbled

around her clit. I knew I had it when she gasped, gripping onto my hair as she

pulled me closer to her. Her moans echoed through the room as I drove her

closer to the edge, and it didn't take long for her to reach that point. She cried

out when an orgasm took hold of her, her body going rigid as she arched her

back.

She relaxed after a moment, collapsing back onto the bed as I pulled away from

her. "Fuck," she mumbled when I sat back down beside her, running my hands

across her naked body. She was all natural, no part of her altered. She wasn't

perfect, but she carried her imperfections with pride, and that, to me, was

beautiful. In fact, she was just as beautiful to me now as she had been the very

first time I saw her this way.

"Dirty girl," I said, brushing my fingertips across her plump lips. I was already

hard, my dick throbbing, and hearing her talk that way was making it worse. I

leaned down and kissed her, her mouth warm and minty. She slid her hand down

the waistband of my boxers and I groaned as she wrapped her palm around my

dick, her grip firm.

Unlike Edward, I was never too tired for sex with my wife. Amateur.

She slid back further in the bed as I pulled my boxers off, climbing on top of her.

I didn't hesitate, pushing her thighs apart as I grasped myself, stroking a few

times to get ready. I positioned at her entrance, groaning and tossing my head

back as I filled her.

"Bellissima," I whispered, slowly pulling back out before pushing in again. "You

feel so good."

She closed her eyes as she wrapped her arms around me. I moved agonizingly

slow, cherishing each second of being inside of her, savoring the sensation. My

skin tingled, chill bumps coating my body. I felt a lot of pain in life. It wasn't

often I got the luxury of pleasure.

"More," she said after a moment, urging me on. I sat up a bit to change the angle

and increased my pace. Her breathing grew strained as I filled her deeper, her

walls wrapping around me tightly like we were made to be this way.

"Harder," she said. At her word I slammed my hips into her with as much force as

I could conjure up, filling her entirely. She cried out, her finger nail digging into

my back. "God, yes."

"You don't have to call me God," I said as I kissed her, nipping at her bottom lip

with my teeth. "My name will do just fine."

"Jackass," she muttered. "Be quiet. You're killing the moment with your

cockiness."

"I thought you liked me cocky."

"I like your cock," she said. "Big difference."

I laughed. "It is big, isn't it?"

She rolled her eyes as she clamped a hand over my mouth. "No talking," she

said, smiling mischievously. "Just fucking."

I groaned. She was trying to kill me.

Minutes passed. Hours passed. Days passed. Months passed. I wasn't sure. It

could've been years and I probably wouldn't have noticed. Time stood still when

we were like this, the room continuously filled with the sounds of our ecstasy.

Sweaty skin slapping together, our bodies merging and groans in harmony. It

was a whirlwind, being swept away from it all, the musky scent of sex that

surrounded us was intoxicating. I was on a high, the adrenaline surging through

my body pushing me forward.

"Deeper," she demanded. That was one thing I loved about Esme, that I loved

from the start. She wasn't too shy to say what she wanted and with me, that was

sometimes necessary.

I grabbed her legs, lifting them over my shoulders, and slammed into her hard.

The change in position caused her cries to get louder as I drilled into her deeper,

her body tensing. She was close again so I reached between us to rub her clit. I

watched in awe as her face scrunched up, her body seizing as another orgasm

swept through her.

Watching her come was one of the most satisfying experiences of my life. Seeing

her pleasure, knowing I'd caused it, was invigorating. I felt good. I felt

worthwhile. I felt right.

I felt powerful.

It didn't take long after that for mine to hit, pleasure rushing through me. I

grunted, thrusting hard and fast to prolong the feeling. She clung to me tightly,

whispering in my ear as I spilled inside of her. Chills shot down my spine from the

sensation and I collapsed on top of her, unable to take anymore.

I was spent.

We lay there for a moment in total silence, me still inside of her, both of us trying

to catch our breath. She eventually pushed me off of her when my weight got to

be too much and snuggled in my arms, her head on my chest.

"Alec?"

"Yeah?"

"I was wrong," she said, her fingers stroking my stomach hair. "I missed all of

you."

I smiled. Afterward, in bed, was when she always seemed the most vulnerable. "I

know, Bellissima. I missed you, too."

Silence surrounded us once more and I started drifting off to sleep when she

spoke again. "Alec?"

"Yeah?"

"Who'd you choose?"

"Huh?"

"The hostess job. Which one did you choose?"

I opened my eyes when that question registered. I knew I'd forgotten something.

"Why don't you pick?"

"Me pick?" she asked. "You mean you didn't hire anyone yet?"

"No."

She groaned, but this time it wasn't in pleasure. She was frustrated. "I asked you

to do one thing," she said. "That's it. One thing. You run off to Vegas in the

middle of the night, you don't call, you make me crazy with worry, and I go with

it. I do whatever you need me to do, but I ask you to do one thing and you don't

do it."

I frowned. "I got sidetracked."

"With what?" she asked. "What did you even do today?"

It was a question she rarely asked me.

I flew across the country. I broke up a prostitution ring and threatened a man's

daughter. I saved a human trafficking victim and rid the world of her enslaver,

which would likely save others from succumbing to her same fate. I was

assaulted by a baby. I tortured a traitor before killing another. I warded off a

federal agent. I ripped people off. I taught a boy a lesson that would hopefully

help him survive. I sold Godforsaken Girl Scout cookies.

So what did I do today? It didn't matter, because I didn't do the one thing I'd

promised my wife I would do. I disappointed her.

"I failed," I replied.

She sighed. "Did you at least try?"

"Of course I did," I said, although it didn't matter. If it wasn't a success, it was a

failure.

"Then I forgive you."

I had no response. I didn't deserve her forgiveness. I never did, but she gave it

to me time and time again.

Just as I was finally on the verge of unconsciousness, desperate for the sleep that

had alluded me, she spoke again.

"Alec?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

I smiled, kissing the top of her head. "Ti amo."

"I had fun," Esme said as we walked toward her house. She was still lugging

around that massive stuffed bear, picking at the last of her pink cotton candy.

"I'm glad."

She glanced at me curiously. "Did you?"

"It was okay."

"That's not what I asked," she said. "Did you have even the tiniest bit of fun?"

I paused where I was, a few houses down from the Cullen residence. "Yes, I did,"

I replied, "because you were there."

Her smile was radiant as she gazed at me. She stood up on her tip toes after a

second, pressing her lips to mine. She tasted sweet, sugary. I never liked sweets

before, but suddenly I wanted more.

I deepened the kiss and she moaned into my mouth, the sound giving me chills. I

shivered and pulled away from her to take a breath, a flash of metal catching my

attention as I opened my eyes. It was familiar, a sight I knew well. I tried to

react, to stop it before it started, but it was too late.

There were two of them, both wearing all black. One had dark skin, the other

white, but their tattoos and style immediately told me it wasn't personal. They

certainly didn't belong to the Irish, the two of them simple street thugs. It was

random. Unplanned. They were trying their luck on whomever they came across.

Unfortunately for them, that person was me.

The dark one grabbed Esme from behind, shoving his gun into her throat.

"Cooperate and I won't hurt her," he said.

I looked at Esme, seeing the fear in her eyes. "Listen to them, Alec," she said,

her voice shaking. I held up my hands slowly, so as to show them I wasn't going

to fight. The second guy grabbed a hold of me and I gritted my teeth as he dug in

my pockets, pulling out my belongings. He grabbed my wallet and smirked,

handing the rest of the stuff to the guy who held Esme.

"A Mercedes," he said as he eyed my keys. "Where's it parked?"

I didn't answer right away and he shoved the gun into her harder, making her

yelp. It took all I had to stay still, not wanting to be hasty and get her hurt.

"Down the street," Esme said, her voice frantic. "A block or so."

The man pocketed the keys, smiling excitedly. He figured he'd just scored himself

a nice car and wouldn't even have to hot-wire it. "Gimme the watch," he

demanded, motioning toward my wrist. Begrudgingly, I took it off and held it out

to him as the second one started rifling through my wallet. He took out the cash

and discarded the rest on the ground, not interested in it.

They took Esme's jewelry from her and she didn't fight, relief flashing in her face

when the man let her go. She grabbed a hold of me, panicked, her body

trembling as he pointed the weapon at us. They started backing away, happy

with their take, and for a brief second I considered letting them go. She was safe

and that was all that mattered. For her, I would've given them money and

jewelry. She was more important than the car.

But, as one final act of defiancy, they took the one thing I couldn't let them take.

The Godforsaken stuffed bear.

The moment he ripped it from her hands, I lost my composure. I pushed Esme

behind me and reached into my coat, grabbing my gun. The fool hadn't patted

me down, oblivious to it. Fear flashed across both of their faces as I went toward

them. They froze, panicked. Neither stood a chance.

I didn't pull the trigger. I didn't even flip the safety off. But I beat both men

unconscious, neither moving by the time I was done. My temper had gotten the

best of me and controlled my every move. I was blinded by rage.

I turned to Esme when my senses came back. She stared at me with wide eyes.

She was in shock. I waited for her to be horrified. I waited for her to be sickened

by me. I expected fear. Anxiety. Disgust. I anticipated anger.

But never, in my wildest dreams, did I think I would see lust.

"Wow," she squeaked out, her cheeks flushed. "That was kind of hot."

I couldn't even respond. I had no idea what to say.

Sirens wailed in the distance and she panicked, quickly grabbing our things

before grabbing me by the hand. She yanked me across the street and I didn't

resist. Stunned by her reaction.

Instead of heading for the porch, she pulled me around the side of the house.

"That was crazy," she said, pacing the small area in front of me. "Seriously, that

was just... wow... that was crazy."

"Are you okay?" I asked, worried about her.

"Thanks to you, yes," she replied."Jesus, Alec, is it always like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like... that," she said again, as if I were supposed to understand. "The

adrenaline, the blood flowing, the pure craziness. My heart was in my throat. I

felt like I was going to pass out but i felt high. I felt, I don't know, alive! Does it

always feel that way?"

No, I thought. I felt anger a moment ago, but usually there was nothing. No

emotion. Numbness. She wouldn't understand that though, but I understood how

she felt - it was how I felt with her.

"Yes," I lied.

She smiled and right there, along the side of the house, she dropped to her

knees.

This time I didn't stop her.

Public Enemy Number One: An EP Novella

"Flash back to September seventh

When Tupac was murdered in Vegas

He said that he predicted his own death

Let us never forget it or should we ever live to regret it

Like the day John F Kennedy was assassinated in broad day

By a craze lunatic with a gun

Who just happened to work on the same block in a library book depository

Where the President would go for a little Friday stroll

Shots fired from the grassy knoll

But they don't know or do they?"

Eminem - "Public Enemy Number One"

Epilogue

On October 14, 2006, at three minutes past midnight, I died for the second time.

Al Capone passed away at the age of 48 from cardiac arrest caused by a stroke,

likely a complication from his advanced syphilis. John Gotti was 61 when he

finally succumbed to his cancer. Both relatively lucky, given the way they lived.

Peaceful deaths, natural even. No blood. No violence.

I was only 43 at the time of my death. I died from multiple gunshot wounds to

the abdomen, received in an abandoned warehouse in the south side of Chicago -

gunshot wounds I suffered while trying to save Isabella Swan.

My heart wasn't beating when I reached the hospital. They said I'd been down for

nearly 5 minutes, my brain completely deprived of oxygen. Brain cells started to

die around that time, hope for any sort of recovery slim.

The staff at Chicago Memorial Hospital considered me a lost cause. A few

wouldn't even try to save my life. Some just walked away. The streets were

better off without me, they thought. Why help a man who only hurt others?

There was one single doctor, a young man fresh out of medical school, who

refused to give up. He told the rest of them that by walking away, they were no

better than the mobster lying on the table. By refusing to help, they'd be the one

hurting others.

At nine minutes past midnight, thanks to that doctor, I was revived.

You see, Edward was right. Turning your back on someone in need did make you

just as guilty. When everyone else walked away, claiming it was none of their

business, it took courage to be the only one to stand up. It was the type of

courage few had, but the type of courage I could respect. Carlisle had it,

especially in his final days. Elizabeth possessed it, sacrificing her life in order to

end the suffering of another. It was the type of courage they'd instilled in their

children.

It was a courage I lacked most of my life.

I was in a coma for nearly two months following the shooting. Esme stayed at my

bedside and that doctor checked in on me every single day. He told Esme not to

expect much. The longer I was down, the less chance I'd ever come back. He

warned her there could be paralysis, mental issues. The right side of my brain

showed damage so they expected problems - sensory sensitivity, inability to

express emotions. He said I could lose my sense of humor, forget names, become

socially inept. I'd lack communication skills, probably make people

uncomfortable.

Little did he know, I had been that way since birth.

Dying changed a part of me - as much as I could change, anyway. I found that

courage I lacked, and I found it because of that doctor, and because of Isabella. I

was still myself, but I got it now. I understood. I realized doing what was right

sometimes meant breaking your own rules.

Esme tried to teach me that at a long time ago. It was a shame it took dying for

me to finally get it.

After I was released from the hospital, I sent the doctor a check to show my

gratitude. It was returned a few days later with a note, saying he appreciated the

gesture but he didn't accept blood money. I wasn't offended. I laughed, actually.

It was funny to me. Considering his profession, I ventured to guess a lot of his

paycheck actually came from spilled blood.

My wife once asked me what I saw when I died. She wanted to know if my life

flashed before my eyes, playing out in my mind like a story. Did I witness those

births and deaths again? Did I relive our love? Did I see those tragedies? Was my

life like everyone else's, a string of events with mediocrity in between?

I told her it was. I told her I saw it all.

I lied.

There was nothing but blackness.

I was almost another number, another statistic. Almost another body in the

morgue. But I was spared. It was the closest I'd get to another chance at life.

Closest I'd ever come to a reprieve.

I was alive to see another day. Another day just like the last.

I hadn't yet decided if that was a blessing or a curse.