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  • Bloody Legacy


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    January 22, 2019

    4pm

    "Little Monk's" Customs, Classics and Parts

     

     

     

    It was purposeful, of course being a businesswoman it wasn’t necessarily the smartest thing to do. Nevertheless it was probably for the best of everyone’s sanity. When she got annoyed, she tended to get angry. When angry, shit hit the fan and not in a good way. Today, she was angry and shutting herself off from the entire shop- hell no the Impala wasn’t going to repair itself. There was no time to deal with the annoying drama that was spilling onto her street, no patience, no desire! It was a complete pain in the ass to be a legacy. No... it was worse than a pain in the ass, a pain in the ass could be enjoyed if that was your inclination. She never wanted to write off that kind of romp, it served its purpose on the most frustrating of moods. This was a flat out clusterfuck. They could either get the hint and go fuck themselves, or they would continue to come back and find out how very little patience she really had.

     

    For most, the sound was a weird annoyance to the eardrums… crackling unlike anything that could really be identified in this world. It didn’t have the same sound as lightning, or electricity. It was always different in each artist’s hand. The flow of the metal, the weight of the touch. Each experienced tech had their own hum to the sparks. At first, she’d swathed herself in leather or denim. The floating arcs of orange were so beautiful when they bounced off reality. Her pop's buddies, the sandpaper rough crew her father surrounded himself with never protected themselves. Ripped sleeves off of flannel and jean. She couldn’t afford to hide behind cloth if she was to survive. She tried to imagine they were sparklers at first, concentrated on memories of her braided pigtails bouncing across her shoulders on a warm summer fourth, the bright yellow bursts flinging in every direction. Indeed. Reality was a bit more harsh, brighter. The flicking pepper of needles became ignored, her skill sublime. Dangerous…

     

    ...and at the moment pissing her off.

     

    Visor flipped up, flash fading, well-worn Doc kicking the edge of the frame that used to sit behind a fat tire on the classic, a chunk of rust hitting the cement floor and splattering into a fray of pieces. It was trash. It was all trash. Why the hell would someone repair a frame from nose to asshole and forget the rear mudflaps? They had painted every damn panel at this point.

     

    Damn it.

     

    BILLS!

     

    Every spine in the shop twanged to ramrods at the sound of her voice. Rare, like a white Rhino, and just as fucking vicious.

     

    *npc* Yah, Monk.

     

    He was wiping his hands with a grease rag when he stepped into her bay, gingerly slipping his coveted grease rag into his back pocket grease rag spot… He might have well kicked a few pebbles on his way in, hip avoiding one of her shelves. Nobody worked in her bay, everything was lower for her height. Most learned to avoid it after accidentally corner pocketing their balls on one of her tool hooks.

     

    Did this go up on the lift when you brought it in?

     

    It hummed in her chest, the gentle voice bordering on silence.

     

    *npc* I believe so.

     

    Doc heel smacked the side of the frame again, another chunk of rust shattering onto the floor as it gave way. It was on the inside, somewhere that even some of the most experienced didn’t reach up and touch when inspecting a ride. Her people were not the kind to miss it. This was just stupidity. Whose stupidity was yet to be seen.

     

    *npc* Can we patch it? Plate?

     

    ..and attach it to what?

     

    Visor clunked on the bench and she racked the gun, gloves pulled off to reveal the creamy hands against the lithe bare arms that were slapped rosy pink from heat. She said nothing. He knew. He knew in order to put the damn thing back together, to recoup all the work that had been put in they would have to find another frame. At the end of the world, even with big ass clients, it wasn’t that easy.

     

    Two shitstorms in one day was not what she wanted on her mind.

     

    Fix this.

     

    He ran his hands over the grizzly face, twisting his pointy beard a moment before they settled on his hips.

     

    *npc* I know a guy... I know you don't like.. but... I can fix this.

     

    Throbbed eyes flicked to him. It was worse than screaming at him. Much, much worse. Fingers danced in quick succession as he watched her through puppy dog eyebrows. Verbal berating was terrible… this, shit...there were words that couldn’t even be described that her hands could put together.

     

    God damn it. God damn it!!

     

    They’d been here again. Again!

     

    *npc* No, Monk. Kett. Ketterine!

     

    Two at a time, stairs were always two at a time when she was in a hurry. The chrome hi-power was loaded, it had been loaded for the last few weeks. Too much crap. Too many vultures. She lived alone above the shop. When the lights went out at night, it was just her. Vintage cars, vintage bikes, and even herself was a target to dipshits that wanted to take things that weren’t theirs. They weren’t her concern, never had been. The mob daughter had no problem shooting some asshole in the kneecaps to find out what they were doing there before she took a blowtorch to his face.

     

    She also had no problem doing the same to a mob that felt it had the right to move in on what her father had left behind. She may have been Bakkhos by blood, but it took more than blood to be loyal. They had gotten to Bills, they would get to the others. She needed them. She loved them, they were loyal to her father, and they were loyal to her. Intimidation by any means was unacceptable, and apparently she needed to again remind someone in their ivory towers of bullshit casinos. Their latest thug was done stopping by to drink her coffee and stroke his own dick ego.

     

    Stuffing the hi-power in the back of her belt, she pulled on a beat to hell brown leather coat and pushed open the door to seek her bike. It was a death trap in the winter, for someone who didn’t know what the hell they were doing.

     

    Ding.

     

    Tiny frame jumped on a chair in stride and swiped the damn bell off the hinge, tossing it into the trash as she left.

     

    Damn door.

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    If her cheeks weren’t so flushed hot, she probably wouldn’t have minded the cold so much.  Arms were still rosy pink spattered in a toothbrush’s fling of tiny dark freckles, irritated under the ancient leather jacket.  It was warm, worn and smelled like the shop.  Most of the pale pea green satin finish lining had worn away.  It broke her heart, the synthetic fabric still able to hold the scent of her  father’s cologne after all this time.  She was loathe to tear it out, it was so tattered.  Not able to be seen from the outside when she wore it, she figured unless someone was ripping her clothes off nobody would ever see it anyway.  Plus nobody ever ripped her clothes off lately.  Maybe that was her problem.  Foot lowered at a light, the bike in a dangerous lean.  He was considerably taller than she was, and the Chief was built to pop's height.  Average at most, if she had been average.  She managed.  Well.  The world was always finding ways to tell her she couldn’t, and she always found a way to proverbially, yet cordially in most circumstances, to tell them to shove it up their collective asses.

     

    The push upright was almost graceful, a perfectly timed righting of the bike as she surged it forward through the dusty salt street. She knew exactly where this bitch ass punk was squatting.  A “soldier” to whatever strokers were calling the mob these days.  Something elegant probably, to match their elegant tastes and fancy suits.

     

    It used to be something.  It used to be about protecting family, honor, carving a place in the world where people in power -the ones that pulled the strings and made the working class miserable- were kept in check.  Now, the ones in power WERE the ones that claimed to be la famiglia.  Bullshit.  Casinos. Bullshit.  Wineries.  Bullshit.  It used to be about grease, steel and blood, not an underling asshole’s need to look at her tits every time he came over to schmooze her employees so he could claim the territory was theirs.

     

    Apartment buildings had gotten so tight, they almost blotted out the view of the sky, fire escapes zigzagging everywhere like an Escher drawing.  Bike parked a block away, she crossed the street, braided pigtails bouncing less from the weight of her heavily booted strides than the speed at which she could move them.  Descending the stairs to the sublevel apartment was even quicker, fingers jiggling the doorknob, shouldering the weak lock latch and shoving it open.

     

    *npc* Baby girl!

     

    The greeting was a cheery attempt to diffuse the fact her chrome Browning was already in her hand and pointed at him.  Ugly wood paneling that had been glued to old brick shattered behind him, leaving splintered shrapnel in his hair.  Both hands had come up to either side of his head.

     

    He got the point and froze.

     

    Jesus Christ he needed a shower, and a life.  His gun was on the gritty side table next to him, obscured by beer bottles smelling of variously aged swill on the bottoms… and a bit of chewing tobacco spit.

     

    The apartment was a shithole.  Hazed basement windows, some kind of sports game flickering through the low hanging cigar smoke, his feet up in the old recliner as he munched on chips, smoked his cigars, drank his beer, watched his game… and what?  Pondered the strong-arming of her chop shop?  She might have well caught him in a strip box with his pants around his ankles.

     

    Who is your boss.

     

    His lips pursed, hands still on either side of his face, he’d never heard her voice before.

     

    *npc* Let me know what’s bugging you sweetheart and I can solve it.  The Impala I fed you giving ya troubles?  I can come over and help out.

     

    Brick splintered this time above his head, dusty pebbles plinking to the floor.  He’d nearly jumped out of his chair, fingers curled to attempt to cover his ears.

     

    Your.  Boss.

     

    *npc* Let me explain how this shit works.

     

    She shot him.

     

    Not in the head mind you… the string of curses as he clutched his shoulder just as amusing as the airborne puff of fluff that was lingering in the air from the stuffing of the chair behind his wife-beater clad torso.

     

    Let me explain to you how this shit works.  Your boss, or I shoot you in the face.

     

    *npc* You are a fucking crazy bitch!

     

    A bloody hand slippered on the handle to bring down the footrest and stutter for the flannel shirt on the floor to press against the hole in his shoulder.

     

    Your boss!

     

    Ok, maybe her aim wasn’t that great. He was bleeding, a lot, under his collarbone.

     

    Stumbling up, the beer bottles spun in every direction as he went for his gun. She fired again and he crumpled, not enough hands to clutch the side of his leg, grab for the gun, stop the bleeding at his shoulder? and still keep his balance.

     

    *npc* Please…

     

    Name!

     

    Her heart thundered.  Fear.  There was so much of it.  From him, bubbling in the pit of her stomach. She was afraid.  Her anger had led her here, and she’d done the unthinkable.  It was all red, her brain screaming at her to call it off, the rage that had built over her lifetime seeing this man as a focal point of all the bullying, all the threats.  Two storms crashing together viciously inside a tiny body, listening intently as he sputtered the name out.

     

    *npc*  They’re gonna kill you for this.

     

    Everything stopped, pupils shrinking to points.

     

    She fired.  Again, and again and again until she realized the repeated clicks were dry fire and there was nothing left.  Her sensitive hearing.. warped for a moment, bright smell of blood blossoming through the cigar smoke…..frozen in time until she heard voices, realizing for the first time the blood, was everywhere.

     

    Eyes flew to one of the tiny basement windows, within seconds she was shimmying out onto the street through a window so small it was almost impossible for even her to fit through.  Boots and leather scraped, pulling up the window behind her as the light in the room changed.  They saw her shadow, she saw their shadow, the muck on the window obscuring anything else.  Whether they were the dick’s cronies or just neighbors hearing the fray, she didn’t know.  She wasn’t sticking around to find out.  Browning went back into her belt, large leather jacket pulled over it.  Hands stuffed in her pockets as she nonchalantly crossed the street to retrieve her bike from the lot a block away.

     

    Virgin numbness was gone, every nerve now on fire, this sickening mixture of aggression and fear.  A kid finished getting beaten to a pulp lashing out at the bullies in a horrible way.  It had not been her intent, or had it?  It felt so unbelievably.. good to pull that trigger.  The bullshitter was gone, and she had a name.  Up the food chain or leave the dead dog lie.  He would be replaced, wouldn’t he?  This might slip under the radar once, but if he was replaced?  How long could she keep shooting underlings in the head before somebody noticed?

     

    Her father had been a Rottweiler.  A man shot so many times he was thought to be unkillable.  That meant for something.  Loyal to Bakkhos until the day he died, he left her with that hope.  They were no longer the Bakkhos he’d pledged his family to were they?  Whether or not memories were longer than the end of the world would play directly into whether her shop would be blown to a thousand pieces while she slept.

     

    If there was any honor left, they would leave her alone.

     

    There was no hope then.

     

    There would be another.  In the back of her mind she knew she’d started a war.  A tiny one in the grand scheme of the world now.  A tiny war for a tiny “baby girl”.  The world saw her for just a mob baby girl.  Her father’s friends, now her only family, would follow her into hell, but what a hell to die for.  Fear had slipped off her skin.  Nothing was left but anger… living so long repenting a lived life she never really knew, when she was only playing further into its hands.

     

    Bike roared to life and she pushed off, needing to make a stop first.  Several.

     

    Tiny baby girls still needed big bullets.

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    The next day.

    10am

     

     

     

     

     

     

    She hated being outside her salvage yard compound. It was her tiny fortress of solace, well organized, neat, clean, sleek and hidden behind ten foot metal fences topped in razor wire. Inside her castle, she was the queen. The world was quiet except for the hum of beautiful machines and productive tools. She rarely spoke, all of her employees understanding standard ASL enough to communicate. It was an elegant system, an efficient system. She was proud of what she’d built and maintained, and that was what made her so irate.

     

    Being out in the world annoyed her to no end. She had to communicate with people she didn’t know, or trust, or care about on their terms.

     

    Fingers were clasped between her knees as she waited in the stupid little ammo shop, chewing on her lip and watching the closed circuit cameras flip in their pale black and white. What was taking so damn long? Christ she felt like a teenager buying the pill for the first time. Counter jockey returned from the back several moments later with a scowl that wasn’t what she wanted to see. Rising slowly, she pulled the Browning from the back of her belt and set it carefully on the counter. She didn’t know all this etiquette shit, was she supposed to give it to him so he could check and make sure he had the right stuff?

     

    *npc* Not much. Not much out there at all for this. I found what I could.

     

    I’ll take what you have, and a shoulder harness for it if you have one.

     

    He nodded and got it ready for her as she pulled out cash. She ran a cash business, there was always a ton of it. Eyes passed over the wall of firearms behind him. It wasn’t the greatest of selection, but being

    In the predicament she’d put herself in it was probably something she should be thinking about. A lot.

     

    She reloaded the Browning at the counter, put it into the back of her belt and picked up the scant rest, casting a glance over her shoulder at the wall again as she left.

     

    *npc* Something I can bring down for you to look at?

     

    Hand tightened on the paper bag with the meager ammunition and wrapped up harness in it, passing it between her hands.

     

    I’ll come back, I’m on a bike.

     

    *npc* Sure thing miss.

     

    It was an odd feeling, stepping out onto the bitter cold sidewalk to scan people going about their daily business, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder. She would not look over her shoulder. She was in the right, no matter what.

     

    The shop was strangely quiet when she returned, kicking the stand on the bike and sliding off to pull up the tiny garage door and roll it inside, shutting it behind her.

     

    *npc* I sent everyone home.

     

    Why.

     

    *npc* I thought you wouldn’t want them here after what you did.

     

    He knew. He knew what she would do when she’d walked out the door. She didn’t know whether to scream at him or send him home too. He was right though. Bag landed on the workbench in the main bay with a glittery clink as she pulled off her coat and hung it up. The Browning came out too and was set on the bench. One hand leaned on the bench, the other her hip.

     

    I need you to all make sure you are armed. All the time.

     

    His sigh was quiet.

     

    *npc* I was dealing with that asshole so you didn’t have to. You shouldn’t have done this.

     

    You should have let me deal from the start. Nobody claims us Bills. The moment we start kissing someone’s ass is the moment we lose who we are. We aren’t owned by anyone.

     

    *npc* Your father is not a boss anymore Monk. You can’t make calls like that. The rules are different now.

     

    I did. I did and I will. Someone sets foot on this property that isn’t slinging classic business or trading parts for cash, you bring them to me, or you shoot them on sight. They can claim anything they want, the reality is what I say it is.

     

    She opened the bag and tightened the holster as far as it would go. The damn thing was ugly as hell, and twisted up.

     

    Sigh again was quiet, the grizzled old biker taking it gingerly from her frustrated fingers and slipping it onto her shoulders like a father wrapping his daughter’s shoulders in a shawl for the prom. He handed her the chrome gun and she slid it into the holster and clipped it in. Pulling a knife from a sheath on the back of his belt, he swiped the leather tails off the buckles and settled her into it.

     

    The rules are my rules.

     

    He nodded.

     

    Stop looking at me like that.

     

    *npc* You kill him?

     

    She nodded, shrugging her shoulders a few times to let the thing settle.

     

    Yes.

     

    *npc* Anybody see you?

     

    No.

     

    It was almost the complete truth. His mood turned on a dime, worried and fatherly to obedient. At that moment she realized the legacy of what he had seen with her father. How many people had he killed? How many bodies buried to protect her father?

     

    *npc* We pulled the ’68 off the yard and rolled it into your bay. I know you’re a purist, but that’s all we can find. We know what the entire city’s got. We aren’t finding another ’67 frame. Figured you’d want to work it tonight.

     

    He pulled a blue wipe from the container velcroed to the wall, handing it to her quietly.

     

    *npc* You have blood under your ear, always wipe off the blood.

     

    Blink was quiet, taking the wipe and peering into a cracked small mirror on the wall… hell, she sure did. Shit. She got it off, thumb licked and smeared over it to get the dry off before wiping her hands and crumpling the wipe into the trash.

     

    *npc* I’m going to crash in the bunk room. I knew you’d probably want to stay up and work on the Impala tonight. I don’t want you to be here alone in case there’s a problem.

     

    Features scrunched into a furl, she’d never been “babysat” before. Then again she’d never killed anyone before. Instead of a protest, there was a nod. He needed it more than she did. He had after all promised to look after her.

     

    *npc* I’m sorry.

     

    For what?

     

    *npc* It should have been me. I should have shot that fucker when he first walked in here, but I didn’t want you in this mess. You never wanted us to jump back into that life.

     

    We’ll do what we have to do. Don’t be sorry, just make sure you brew some fresh coffee before you hit the sack. Make sure you’re armed.

     

    He reached into the back of his belt and snapped something open, pulling out a gun she’d never seen on his person, ever.

     

    *npc* I never stopped being…

     

    He loaded a round, and slipped it back in.

     

    Her smile and nod was slight, reaching into a box on the counter to pull out purple foam earplugs. She was going dark tonight as she worked. Her brain hurt, the gunfire, the talking… the world. Bills had ears like a fox, and most likely probably wouldn’t sleep. She trusted him implicitly to warn her, or pull the trigger. Snatching her leather apron from the hook, she disappeared into her bay to do some damage. She had a name. If another wolf showed up on her doorstep she would put it down too, then go up the food chain to the name she'd been given. Of course, she had no idea the name he sputtered before she killed him was not his boss. A different mob, a different clusterfuck. Even dead the asshole was still trying to screw her over. She couldn't have known how much hell was coming if she dared to take that step. How could she?

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    • 2 weeks later...

    Three days later.

    "Little Monk's"

    2pm

     

     

     

     

    Cherry pickers were easy to find, really they were. Good cherry pickers though seemed to always be slightly out of her grasp. Today, was not a good cherry picker day. In fact, it was a shitty cherry picker day. This car had been a shit build from the start...trouble getting the engine out, to the damn frame. It was almost as if she was set up for a string of stupid… Panels were finished, ready to be put on. The wiring cleaned and salvaged. Tires. Glass. Seats. Everything! Except the damn engine wouldn’t go in. Five guys. FIVE! ..and her tiny hands.

     

    Fingers moved quickly under their work gloves.

     

    *npc* No, Monk.

     

    She hoisted herself onto the frame easily, ignoring the protest.

     

    *npc* Monk!

     

    All she needed to do was tilt it. She was what, a hundred pounds soaking wet? This picker was rated for at least four hundred more pounds than what was already hanging from it.

     

    *npc* Let me get the damn leveler.

     

    It was going to hit the firewall. Fuck! The thing always hit the firewall.

     

    The ding from the lobby caught her sensitive ear, pausing just before she climbed into the engine compartment despite Bills’ protests. When the hell had they put the damn bell back up? The lanky guy in the lobby was smoking a cigarette and helping himself to the portfolio of pictures she kept on the coffee table in front of the old polished classic seats they used as benches. She gestured toward him with her chin, one of the guys pulling his gloves off to go help the guy. He’d made it past the front gate watch. Meant he was here for business.

     

    Eyes slid to Bills as she shimmied inside the engine compartment.

     

    *npc* Get out of there, I’ll do it.

     

    *npc* Monk, wants you to look at his ride.

     

    The second voice came from the lobby. Dark eyes peered out one of the windows from the bay they were working in. All she could see was the beat up top of something. She didn’t want to look at anyone’s ride, she wanted to get the damn Impala finished. She had asked them to let her take a looksee first at any incoming jobs after the Impala screw-up after all.

     

    Fine. Fine fine fine.

     

    Shimmying from the engine compartment, her gloves were tucked in the front pocket of her leather apron. Zip-up hoodie that was miles too big for her was shrugged on, covered in dried paint of every color. Pouring herself a cup of coffee she closed the door from the shop to the lobby and nodded toward the pot if the guy wanted some. She didn’t ask for his name, she didn’t care. If she liked the job, she would care. Shouldering the door, she scowled upward at the ding and trod outside in the cold to look over the piece he’d brought in.

     

    Small flits of something between silt and snow caught in her eyelashes, starting to pelt her forehead. Hood was pulled up, crouching, the nimble frame able to crawl low and run her hand along underneath the Skylark that looked like some hack had tried to primer the whole thing himself. Bits of color popped out here and there like a sucked on jawbreaker. Someone thought they knew what they were doing.

     

    Paint job most likely. Body was solid.

     

    *npc* Got a name?

     

    At least he was kind of cordial.

     

    She sipped a bit at the steaming coffee and opened the driver’s side door to turn the key. It sputtered to life and she leaned down under the steering wheel to pop the hood. These damn 67’s were boats. She could live in the floor space these things had.

     

    *npc* Monk, right?

     

    Eyes flicked up at him. Didn’t feel right. Guys were in the shop handling an engine. Overhead doors were closed ‘cause it was fucking cold. Lips pursed a bit, leaning up and glancing through the windshield toward the garage. Heels pulled up from the ground and hooked in the bottom of the door frame as she sat in the driver’s seat, elbows on her knees as she peered up from under her sweatshirt hood at him and drank her coffee.

     

    *npc* Have a deal for you.

     

    He leaned on the top of the door.

     

    *npc* What would you say to total autonomy. Ability to do whatever you want, whenever you want and be totally safe?

     

    This was not happening.

     

    *npc* An opportunity has come up, that some very good friends of mine are able to watch after you here, for… let’s say, something like rent. A small fee for, protection.

     

    She finished her coffee. She’d shot the first bastard. The wrong bastard? No. This guy was different. Different? Shit.

     

    Setting the empty coffee cup onto the dash, her fingers moved carefully. The guy’s eyes were confused a moment, the focus of her eyes watching for the exact moment when he would realize she probably hadn’t heard a word he’d said, including the veiled threat and promise of “protection” for his profit… and why they called her Monk. He would have to change gears, go get someone. Probably come back later. Did she use her "disability" to her advantage when it suited her? Fuck yes.

     

    The “ding” popped her ear again. That’s why they had put it back up. Okay, bully for them.

     

    Asshole looked over his shoulder at Bills who had come out to check on them.

     

    What the fuck was wrong with her? She’d been taken over by this… insatiably angry thing. All it took was a second, and she’d pulled the gun from under her hoodie and flannel to shoot the asshole in the foot when he wasn't paying attention. Shock knocked him forward to clutch his foot, clocking his head on the roof of the car and then backward, scrambling for the gun in his own holster. Bills had a rather large knife at his throat in a second.

     

    Turning off the engine and tucking the keys into her pocket, she got up from the car.

     

    Who sent you?

     

    Words were quiet, looking at his bloody foot then peering out from underneath her hood.

     

    *npc* Outside the gate.

     

    His words were vicious, made it sound like there was an army out there. Patsy maybe, or just the worm on a hook to see how dangerous they were. Would they buckle on a bribe? Maybe, if she was some corner store prick that pissed out money to keep shitheads from stealing their beer and dating their daughters. Bills nodded toward the garage, the rest peeling out and one tossing her a shotgun. The browning went into her belt. There was no army for this bait, the sound of an engine turning on obvious to even her ears. The gate pulled back and she pumped the shotgun once, straight into the windshield of a car that was frantically backing up, a snowy spiderweb of impact cracks and thicker things from the inside.

     

    Even though she wanted to kill the lanky bastard, she had to make a decision. If she killed him, they would come looking. If she let him go, limping back and licking his wounds, it would buy them time but they would come back. She had to get rid of everything. They were never there.

     

    Help me get that car in here and close the gate.

     

    She trotted over to the car that was still rolling in reverse idle, slamming the butt of the shotgun into the driver’s window and shoving the bloody driver over to put it into neutral. She lay the shotgun on the hood and the guys pushed it in and closed the gate.

     

    Let him go.

     

    Bills released him and she tossed Lanky’s keys at him, the split second he went to catch them enough to put a bullet into the side of his head with her hi-power. He dropped like a stone.

     

    Put both cars in the crusher. We need a big hole for these dipshits. Backhoe.

     

    A big hole in hard ground. The cars stacked on top once it was done like a macabre tombstone. Everyone was already moving, the prickled rush again flushing her skin. What had she done?! What had they done?! None had bat an eye at her request… the tiny frame surveying the thousands of neatly stacked cars and rows of shells in her vast compound beyond the garage and realizing, her father’s world may have always been closer than she ever thought.

     

    ...silent scream began to crescendo in the darkness of her brain. Good god...

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    Paranoia.

     

    Itching, itching itching. There was no fear. None. No panic, no fear and no mercy. She imagined everyone knew, every single person that came into the shop to pick up their car or their bike. Could smell the scent of blood that seemed to still be stuck in her nostrils from the mess she’d wiped off her face after the catastrophe several days back. It’d been a week since this whole nightmare started. Nobody else had come sniffing. No other eyes, or suspicious characters. Perhaps they didn’t make themselves obvious, eyeing the place over for any sign they had ever been there. Paid a few patsies to test out the chop shop run by a half pint and her grizzled grease monkeys, maybe they thought their own hires had taken the money and run. Who knew?

     

    All she knew, was she had more cash and was going to pick up more of her growing arsenal. Bills was pissing her off. For every gun she put on the table in the back that was once a rarely used break room, the more puckered his face seemed to get when he looked at her. Cash rolled in hand and transferred to her pocket, she scrubbed up her hands and dried them carefully, pulling off her leather apron and hanging it. Bare shoulders soaked in the radiant blown heat from the large metal grate above the work bench as she pulled her hair from braided pigtails and made one plait in the back under a careless faux-hawk, pulling on the faded dark brown leather coat and a plaid scarf winding around her neck.

     

    She was driving this time. It was rare, but she did have her own car after all. The thunder of its engine shook every piece of metal in the joint when it started, arm over the backseat as the garage door opened and she backed out. The primer black classic was tiny, and a favorite for street racers. Not many could do it right however, shifting… it took tiny feet to hit it just right and not smack the wheel well as you slammed the clutch in a quarter mile. Straight as an arrow, clean. No frills, the compact ’67 Chevy Nova II was of her own making. Every. Single. Inch. Had yet to find something that could kick its ass. It was the kind of car so powerful that the metal that made it couldn’t contain a full out slam to the floor. Light. Small driver. Built with the best parts. Honed to perfection. She wouldn’t have it any other way.

     

    Nod was slight to Bills.

     

    “An hour…” she mouthed as his hand pressed its palm to the door button as she left. Razor-wire topped privacy gate parted and she was out of her zone and into the world again.

     

    Gordon, as she’d found his name to be seemed like a kid at Christmas with all the recent money she was pouring into the place. She would have to find a new supplier. Gun shops got their stuff from somewhere, and that somewhere most likely kept a close eye on what went where. A sudden surge in the neighborhood where suspicious shit was going down would attract attention, if it hadn’t already. This was her last run with this guy. It took two trips with duffle bags to get everything into her trunk that the shop had gathered for her. She had some cash to spare, collected bit more ammo and slammed the trunk.

     

    The gunshot exploded out of nowhere, staggering her forward as it ripped through the baggy underarm of her coat. She dropped behind the Nova, breath fast, belly on the ground, looking for feet under the frame. Several pairs came rushing toward the car from across the street as she pulled the gun from her shoulder holster and fired beneath the car.

     

    Ankles.

     

    Awful place to get a bullet.

     

    Two went down, the other two kept coming, rounding the corner of her trunk as she yanked her wallet chain around her left knuckle and fired with the other. Speed, she was fast, a spray of blood as she pushed off the ground and left-hooked into noses, the gun skittering to the ground and under the car when it was out of ammo. They were stronger, with more bullets, one shattering the side window. She shimmied in as they clawed at her legs to drag her back out, pulling down the back seat to grapple at one of the bags in the trunk, pulling a shotgun and kicking the face in the window trying to grab her with her steel toe. Hand was bleeding, slippery from the glass on the seat, fumbling with shells and kicking again at the hands finally getting a grip on her pant leg. She flipped on her back and racked the shotgun, the window behind her shattering and an arm around her neck to drag her from the broken window. Teeth were a last resort, unable to hang onto the shotgun with slippery fingers, flailing and punching as she clamped down harder on a forearm.

     

    Scream was palpable in her good ear.

     

    *npc* She BIT me!

     

    *npc* HIT her!

     

    They could have shot her already.

     

    This was not a hit.

     

    This was not a hit!

     

    Head hit the ground, her brain screaming at the impact. All her agony was internal. The way her senses worked, the sensitivity of her ears. She felt so damn heavy when they pulled her up. Elbowed in the side of the head, punched in the face… she wasn’t really sure. All she knew is it was agonizing, like her brain had been scrambled… and she was going to throw up. Maybe she did. A million turns on a tilt-a-whirl, spinning, everything was spinning.

     

    *npc* Scrawny little BITCH! Fucking bit me!

     

    His words emphasized by a kick to her side.

     

    She was moving, yanked up by her coat at the back of her neck, thrown against the trunk of her own car, hands zip tied.

     

    The world squealed like a banshee at her. Static, screaming bullhorns, high pitched shrieking… the sound of the car pulling up and cracking its trunk barely cutting the din that was fighting to pull her into unconsciousness. Sounds of silence as she was shrouded in darkness, the scent of blood and the maple syrup oatmeal she had for breakfast.

     

    They weren’t going to kill her. They would have done it already. This was much more serious, they were going to torture her, then kill her. An example of what happens when people reject the status quo. Did they think she was Bakkhos? Or just a lone wolf that wouldn’t crack? Where THEY Bakkhos?

     

    Eyes flickered open, left lashes stuck together from coagulating blood, fingers flexing as they turned at an odd angle and snapped the zip ties. Fucktards. Fingers felt around in the darkness, the hum of the car and tires on the road telling her some about her surroundings as it began to cut through the din in her head. Cut above her eye, behind her ear, split lip. Hands were pretty cut up. She’d had worse.

     

    There was still no fear. Only anger. Anger she’d lost the fight. Anger they thought they could break her.

     

    Fuck. Them.

     

    Fingers felt around on the cheap carpet, rolling slightly to start to unscrew the plastic wing nut that held the panel down. Lifting it enough to slide her hand in and feel around the rusty hole, she pushed aside the jack and found the half tire iron, pulling it out. She was in an older model sedan. Feeling for the wheel well, she couldn’t find what she was looking for. There was a patch panel there instead. It had been, or still was a rust bucket. Prying at the rivets on the panel, the scent of dried salt stung at her cuts as the patch sprouted open, the hum of the rolling tire exactly what she wanted to hear. The chisel side of the iron slammed through the hole, gutting the belt of the tire.

     

    She wasn’t expecting the asshole driving not be able to control a flat.

     

    Small frame slammed against the wheel well as the car skidded violently to the left, cracking broadside against something, the bell-like sound metallic.

     

    Then nothing.

     

    She braced her feet against the far panel, the impact as the car came to a stop tossing her into the backside of the back seat. Pulling the tire iron from the hole, she waited for the trunk to open, the vehicle at an odd angle. The sound of doors slamming.

     

    Bouncing.

     

    Bouncing?

     

    Then upending.

     

    She kicked at the trunk latch. Damn. Fucking. Sedans.

     

    Turning, hands were wet. Cold.

     

    First inkling of panic set in. The car was in the river.

     

    She flipped sides and kicked at the back seat until it gave way, water rushing in. Dark. Freezing. The world was so dark, fingers gripping tightly to the iron as she shimmied into the back seat through the broken edge and straight into a filling car. Barely able to see anything. It was already underwater. It was dark out. The two had either fled or had been thrown out.

     

    Jesus… she could feel the weight of it sinking, and she was out of time. One last breath at the ceiling and she was underwater, feeling for a missing window, the front windshield gone, kicking herself out of the car and upward. Forever upward, unable to swim, hands clamping on both ears at the pressure. Stream of bubbles from her lips to vocalize the pain… agonizing, unending pain. Disorientation… she was going to drown.

     

    She couldn't die... not here, not here, not HERE!

     

    Feet kicked, hands wrenching themselves away from her ears to pull herself upward. The feel of ice picks stabbed into her eardrums, the second her lips broke the water the scream was unearthly, raw enough to bloody up vocal chords. Pain. Death. Sorrow. Revenge. A legacy reborn. People would die for this... suffer, beg for death.... she would burn their skin from their bones with a blowtorch.

     

    ...stuttering breath misted across the dark water, ragged breaths from a body that was shuddering violently from freezing water bobbing under a few more times before she could build the momentum to swim for a dilapidated dock.

     

    She would kill them all.

     

    All.

     

    +++++

     

    Bills' gun was true at the man’s face. Over an hour and darkness had brought him there to find her car shattered with bullet holes and blood- and the asshole prying open Kett’s trunk to pull the guns back out.

     

    *npc* What. Happened.

     

    Gordon spit it out, the entire confrontation, why he didn’t call the police, who he was salvaging the car to…. the former mob bodyguard not wasting another second getting on his bike and roaring it toward the only place he could find help, or beg forgiveness for a sin if they had been the ones responsible. Under the radar no more.

     

    He shoved himself between fancy cars, not bothering with the order of line-up, parking the Harley on the sidewalk and stalking straight for the front door, battered jeans and flannel shirt covering myriad of weaponry. He knew how to move, waiting for eyes to be in another direction to slip onto an elevator. Old habits, old teachings, old ways… died hard.

     

    Stepping off, metal detector screamed as he pulled his gun out, already cocked with his other hand at the knife on the back of his belt- aiming straight into the bouncer’s balls, lips at his ear.

     

    *npc* You tell Gaspari that Bills needs to speak with him. I was sent by Giovanis De Luca. You tell him now or I will castrate your pussy ass right here.

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    Attention was lost in it, the depths of light that were impossible to find the bottom of but nevertheless the brain tried to anyway.  She knew he owned it, a gift from her mother’s father, not wearing it often for fear of what tools and an engine did to fingers when they could grab onto something that had no give.  He was wearing it now… odd... the scrape of a fork on his plate mixed with the swirl of great spaghetti.  When she was a kid, she remembered reaching for it once, playing with it while he held her.  Child fingers touching the sparkles and trying to find the depths to which they went.  The world at that time held no meaning for her other than the sights, the smells… tastes, touches and vibrations.  She saw everything, felt everything, the tiniest change in air when someone approached out of her sight line, the minute twitch nobody else noticed... but alone in her head.

     

    Ten years later, it was still distracting to her even though the world held new meaning.

     

    Her own fork pushed around her pops’ fantastic cooking as they sat at the vintage 50’s diner table.

     

    *npc* They’re making fun of your lisp.

     

    Fork plopped food into her mouth, the warped sound of his voice bobbing in and out of her range of hearing, it was getting better.  Nodding slowly, she continued to push the food around on her plate.

     

    *npc* Take care of them.

     

    Chewing was slow, her jaw hurt, split lip still raw.  Their time together was increasingly rare, and he cooked for her even less.  Maybe he had a girlfriend, she’d yet to meet her if he did.

     

    Don’t want to mess up my ear.

     

    Words were tentative, the sound of her own voice still strange in her head where before it had only been vibration.

     

    He took another bite and chewed slowly, the milk downed after and glass clinking on the table.

     

    *npc* One.  Kett.  You never look down, to anyone.  I don’t care if it’s the king of New York, you look that bastard in the eye.

     

    Darkly kohl-lined eyes lifted to him from her food, the make-up partially hiding the junior high schooler’s shiner that wasn’t fully into fruition yet.  She was ashamed of it.

     

    *npc* Two.  You find the biggest, brashest of the group. Not the pissbaby that was put up to taking care of their shit and clocked you in the eye.  The biggest.  The top.  The ringleader. You find 'em and you hit ‘em.  Hard as you can.  With your fist, with a pipe, with a chair, a chain on your knuckles.  You keep hitting ‘em until they refuse to get back up.

     

    What… about getting in trouble.

     

    Voice was still quiet, and would never adopt the thick Brooklyn accent of her father.

     

    *npc* You leave that to me. No teacher ever thinks you shouldn’t fight back… they just can’t say so.  You’ll get in trouble, but you won’t get in trouble with me, and that’s what matters.  Your family.  Me, the guys downstairs.  Whoever doesn’t stick up for you, cut ‘em loose.  They ain’t family. They hurt you, you hit 'em 'till they can't get up.  They ain't family.

     

    She nodded quietly, watching him rise and rinse his dishes in the sink before placing them in their new dishwasher.

     

    *npc* I gotta go take care of some business with Bills.  Scotch’ll help you finish the Harley.  Make sure you finish your math homework first though.  That C ain't cuttin' it Monk.

     

    Nod again was silent as he left.

     

    That damned diamond in his ring.  The colors. Sparkles, the fire it had that her vision chased all the time.

     

    Lashes fluttered, the first sign of life since the dark river.  A slow, muffled beep pulled her from the death-like, half-lidded stare.  A full breath drew before the black lashes parted, realizing she’d been staring at a lamp next to her bed, the refracted rainbow spindles boiling an intrusive anger in her gut. Comatose?  Unconscious?

     

    For a brief moment, everything had been okay in her unconscious world. Now, it was a gnarl of regret. Regret she hadn’t found the bastard who killed her father and pounded their bones to dust.

     

    She was still alive, there was hope.  Movement was met with a groan and the realization her bare ass was on a sheet, fucking hospital gown, and she was covered in thermal blankets.  Fingers decorated in wires reached to touch her forehead and the knot there, annoyance slipping across features as she started ripping wires off her fingertips and the tape that held the IV in the back of her gauze wrapped hand.  Machines squealed, nurses came in.

     

    *npc* No, no hun… just rest. 

     

    The woman put her hand in the middle of her chest to ease her back down.

     

    *npc* Our Jane Doe is coming around…

     

    She was talking to someone over her shoulder, attention back on the spitfire as she tried to sit up again. 

     

    *npc* Can you tell me your name?  A police officer found you unconscious on a dock under the Brooklyn Bridge.  Can you tell me what happened to you?

     

    The mechanic’s hand snapped to grab her wrist and throw it off, only to be gripped gently on both biceps and urged again to stay in bed.  The tiny titan aggressively did the same and pushed forward against the woman with substantial size on her, the nurse’s stumble back pronounced and confused.  Fuck this bitch!  More wires were yanked off her chest and tossed aside.

     

    The other nurse was immediately at the IV bag.  No, NO NO!

     

    She had people to find.  Rage.  Nothing but rage surged forth from her veins to fight whatever was being thrust into them.  Absolute.

     

    She had to…

     

    She had...

     

    ….

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    [npc] You tell Gaspari that Bills needs to speak with him. I was sent by Giovanis De Luca. You tell him now or I will castrate your pussy ass right here.[/npc]

     

    It was supposed to be her night off. There was no gig and Gaspari didn’t have muckymucks visiting needing her muscle around. She was supposed to be home, curled up in her couch with a decent can of soup still recovering from fighting demonshadows on the high seas. And yet here she was in her dove gray pinstripe monkey suit because the head bouncer and two guards of the club had come down with the flu. She hadn't even had a clean shirt for under so the only thing under the blazer was the matching vest, décolletage far too low and yet somehow not gauche on the over six foot frame.

     

    Walking up behind the doorman the dark shades hid the unnatural eyes, long ponytail swaying behind her shoulders as she tapped him to step aside so she could "look" at the intruder.

     

    [derrick]Really shouldn’t piss on other dogs fire hydrants…….De Luca? Name means nothing here and…..[/derrick]

     

    Hand on her shoulder cut her off, the musky scent of her boss trailing over her senses as the brow frowned over the shades.

     

    [gaspari]….actually. The name means a lot here. But not from you….[/gaspari]

     

    The head of the Bakkhos family stepped around the bouncer who moved on to watch the rope again.

     

    [gaspari]Because you see, you are lying. De Luca did not send you. [/gaspari]

     

    There was always quiet calm in the mob's bastard son leader, his fingers brushing gently at a faint mark of dust on the sleeve of his suit jacket before continuing, his presence forever exuding the power of family in a way that was nostalgic for the godfathers that had come before him.

     

    [gaspari] You know how I know? Giovanis De Luca was killed more than five years ago by Kostas Mavarichi…..gunned down like a dog in his car on his way home from a Commission… a peace talk where he was representing me and the family. And I personally saw to it that Mavarichi didn’t get a chance to enjoy his victory. So….. you want to start again?[/gaspari]

     

    There was a dangerous glare in the calm eyes, very clear that Gaspari had taken personally the killing of his boss and wasn’t really keen on De Luca's name taken in vain by some miscreant looking to get an audience. His guard dog now calmly standing behind his right shoulder, the glassy stare behind the dark opaque glasses unnerving.

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    Great.

     

    The hustlers first.

     

    Not a muscle moved as he was advanced on, snort solid at the dismissal of his urgency by someone he didn’t even know.  As the bouncer stepped away, his gun remained cocked, retracting close to his ear and pointed at the ceiling… acknowledging the attention, but keeping the threat real.  Gaspari’s approach was clearly in his vision, not a movement missed from anyone, only moving to the man he hadn’t seen in almost a decade after he called off his welcoming committee.

     

    He didn’t piss on anyone’s fire hydrant, he metaphorically threw the fucking thing in the crusher and the dog with it.

     

    "….actually. The name means a lot here. But not from you…."

     

    *npc* …sorry you don’t recognize me without the suit boss.  I got old on ya.

     

    His voice had dropped significant decibels, the hushed rasp of a man that had gotten weary, worried lot, and drank too much.  A surrogate father.  He listened quietly, waiting for the spark of memory to rekindle, maybe It wouldn’t, but he was here for reunions.

     

    " You know how I know? Giovanis De Luca was killed more than five years ago by Kostas Mavarichi…..gunned down like a dog in his car on his way home from a Commission…"

     

    He knew that.  Maybe it wouldn’t have happened if De Luca hadn’t ordered him to stay home that night and babysit.  Maybe he would be dead too.  Maybe Kett would be instead.

     

    “So….. you want to start again?"

     

    *npc* …his daughter, wasn’t killed…

     

    He let it sink in a moment, more for himself than anything else.

     

    *npc* Gio's orders were to keep quiet if anything ever happened to him, but to come to you if Kett needed help.  Whatever she’s done to piss your boys off, is my fault to take.

     

    Eyes softened.  The gun was uncocked, safety clicked as it fell to his side. Voice delved even more quiet, it wasn’t business for the world to know and there wasn’t time to shuffle off to a conference room for ‘cocktails’.  Voice was quick.

     

    *npc* Gio’s property in Brooklyn is still there. It’s on the border, being circled by vultures.  Dirty, I dunno… I’ve been out so long I don’t know who’s who.  Came sniffing about a month ago to piss on our fire hydrant... she told them to go fuck themselves.

     

    Eyes flicked briefly to Derrick under fierce eyebrows.

     

    *npc* …they shot up her car three hours ago at the gun shop near the bridge.  Please tell me she’s not dead yet. The fault is mine, I should have come to you sooner… we should have come back to you sooner.  Half dozen of us, the ones Gio told to stay behind that night… we were following orders.

     

    Sigh was quick, not one of a man worried about his own fate.  Brows furled, genuinely concerned.  There was so much more to the story, for another time.

     

    *npc* Tell me she’s not dead.

     

    ++++

     

    The IV first this time, the flexible needle yanked from her hand signaled a spur to freedom. Anyone tried to stop her now was getting a broken nose.  Wires were ripped off, the machines screaming again, by the time anyone entered she was slamming her heel on the floor to seat her boots and swinging on the damp leather jacket and plaid scarf.

     

    Touch me and I’ll break your face, she hissed at the nurse that came to check on her.

     

    Did they follow?  Yes.  What were they gonna do, walk across the street and drag her back kicking and screaming?  She didn’t want treatment, they couldn’t force it on her.  Shivering, she wasn’t sure if it was more from anger and frustration than the cold. 

     

    She needed wheels.  Cutting down a side street, a scuttled brick decimated a rear passenger window and she unlocked it, climbing over the seat to the driver’s side and hotwiring the bastard.  Back to the scene of the crime.  Heat blasted, screeching to halt in front of her shop to jump out and grab two metal canisters of gasoline and clunking them on the floor in the back seat.  Her crew was speaking to her, their voices stark, their words not processed through the rage.  The little jalopy tore out of the parking lot and back on the road, slammed to a stop in the street next to her battered car.  Both cans in hand, a snarl at the damaged trunk, sarcastic glare kicked up above as bells twinkled on the door when she entered.

     

    Gas beginning to sputter everywhere.

     

    You think you can sell me out?

     

    Gordon had already put her bought and paid for guns back on the walls after obviously prying them from her car.

     

    Let your handlers know when someone’s in here buying up so they know who to intimidate?

     

    He scurried backwards as she threw the other can at him with enough force to break the front display case.

     

    Fuck you!

     

    She reached over and shoved the small closed circuit camera as she left, the shatter of glass and electricity when it hit the floor enough to ignite the room, the force which it whooshed knocking her on ass to the sidewalk outside.  Tiny frame scampered forward to her car, back smacking against it and shielding her face from the heat, leaning down to paw for the keys she knew she’d dropped in the melee before.  They were tucked behind the tire.  Fingers shaking, she opened the door and pulled herself up… the engine roaring to life as she left the place to burn.

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    She could feel Gaspari studying the man as he noted perhaps he was not recognized, nostrils flaring to "look" at him harder now. His scent wasn’t remotely familiar, nor the scratch of his voice.

     

    [npc]…his daughter wasn’t killed…[/npc]

     

    There was a long pause between the two men now, the guard dog head tilting slightly trying to read Gaspari's reaction. Something haunting was here, from his past before she joined the family.

     

    [npc] Gio's orders were to keep quiet if anything ever happened to him, but to come to you if Kett needed help. Whatever she’s done to piss your boys off, is my fault to take.[/npc]

     

    [gaspari]…my boys?..[/gaspari]

     

    Something was clearly off. The head of the family had no idea what the man was talking about but recognition was finally set in, the gruff man had been one of De Luca's caporegimes. Unlike other bodyguards that might be pushing through to extricate them to a safer location, the woman instead stood quietly observing their surroundings and ensuring that no one was stealing in on the conversation. A female trying to get close to Gaspari from behind the ropes quickly escorted inside as the pitbull nodded faintly to the bouncer to remove the little cunt looking for a handout.

     

    Brow quirked over her dark shades as he referred to their fire hydrant. The area he was talking about fell under Carducci as part of Gaspari's.

     

    [npc]… they shot up her car three hours ago at the gun shop near the bridge. Please tell me she’s not dead yet. The fault is mine, I should have come to you sooner… we should have come back to you sooner. Half dozen of us, the ones Gio told to stay behind that night… we were following orders.[/npc]

     

    His words were concerning but not for the reasons he thought. Gaspari's shoulder shifted slightly towards her, the signal read easily by the shift in the air around her as she stood close. Head shook gently, her own words held quiet for just the intimate gathering to hear.

     

    [derrick]…we got nothing going down over there.[/derrick]

     

    The fact that Gaspari deferred to her knowledge of the area was a clear sign she was more than some grunt henchman.

     

    [derrick]…most we been down there is when Carducci is racing…couple ammo drops.. that's it.[/derrick]

     

    There were not a lot of businesses in the area nor money flowing in the streets so it was a blip on their radar, Matteo going so far as to use the often empty streets for drag racing his mustang.

     

    [npc]Tell me she's not dead.[/npc]

     

    [gaspari]..can't do that Bills… because we didn’t go after her. You're right, you should have come to me long ago. I thought all Gio's men had been killed. They had just…vanished. And his kid… I knew about her but he kept it all so secret….[/gaspari]

     

    Frown was dark over the Sicilian brow.

     

    [gaspari]He shouldn’t have kept her such a secret. We could have been protecting her all this time.[/gaspari]

     

    Family was everything to the head of Bakkhos. It was one of the reasons De Luca had trusted him in the first place, joined his vision.

     

    [derrick]I can go and…[/derrick]

     

    Frown drew over her dark shades as his faint shift in weight cut her off. Of course he wouldn’t let her. He was the only one that seemed to pick up on just how badly injured she had been in her little cross Atlantic excursion. He was still keeping her low key so she could heal.

     

    [gaspari]…no… need Matteo down here to sort this out.[/gaspari]

     

    Nodding she slid fingers inside the blazer to the small flip phone in her pocket, "glancing" down to keep up appearances the fingers quickly made the pattern that dialed Carducci's personal phone. Other than the bosses, she was about the only person the higher ranks typically answered their phones for. Not doing so too often meant they pissed off Gaspari and none of them wanted that.

     

    Three rings and the click came, faint grunt of acknowledgement coming to let her know he was on the line.

     

    [derrick]….get to Brooklyn, G will get in touch with you from there.[/derrick]

     

    She flipped it shut again, knowing that Gaspari was going to want to talk to Matteo personally.

     

    [gaspari]….need descriptions Bills… the ones that came around a month ago. Need as much as you know.[/gaspari]

     

    Fucking around in Bakkhos territory was a dangerous game. As much as Gaspari protected family, he also squashed the upstarts. This could get bloody before it was resolved.

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    "…my boys?.."

     

    Color washed away from his face, hard lines from too much summer sun and heated engines cooling to a pale hue, noting the control the woman had over every minute detail.  What she was to Gaspari, he had been to De Luca.  Grayed eyes looked at her again with his own faint nod.  They’d share the fire hydrant for the time being.  The shake of her head bringing a swallow only the worst thoughts could extricate from the battle worn biker.

     

    "…we got nothing going down over there."

     

    Hand drew over his smooth pointed beard, gun sliding back into its holster the second the man uttered his name.  It was taking everything he had not to bolt.  He knew the guys were out looking, the silence of his phone disconcerting.  When Gaspari confirmed his worst fear, the rest of his words were bullets to the gut.

     

    "I thought all Gio's men had been killed. They had just…vanished.”

     

    Not vanished, just out of sight.  Letting the little spitfire bury her father and cast a blanket of hatred across the family that had gotten him killed.

     

    “And his kid… I knew about her but he kept it all so secret….  He shouldn’t have kept her such a secret. We could have been protecting her all this time."

    Lips parted slightly.

     

    *npc*  …he didn’t want her to turn into.. this…   she isn't, this.

     

    His eyes drew over the overpriced skirts still hanging on their every movement even though their conversation was out of earshot.  Hell, he didn’t know if THEY were ready for what she’d become. How did he explain to Gaspari that she blamed them for her taking her father long before he died?

     

    "I can go and…"

    Eyes flicked to his companion.  From a bristled guardian to family fold instantly.  He didn't realize until now how much he desperately missed that.  He missed the truth that no matter what, family would rally around the weak.  How could he get Kett to see that?  She would not see it that way.  She never saw it that way.

    "…no… need Matteo down here to sort this out."

    He knew that name, and it wasn’t one he wanted to hear.

    "….get to Brooklyn, G will get in touch with you from there."

    No. This was not going to end well.

     

    "….need descriptions Bills… the ones that came around a month ago. Need as much as you know."

     

    It was at that second his own phone sprang to life and he yanked the beater to his ear, huge sigh in the large man’s lungs.  Eyes closing a moment.

     

    *npc* Follow her… oh?

     

    ..the words were urgent, but quiet.  Teeth rung his bottom lip through his teeth.  The Brooklyn sky was glowing orange at this very moment.

     

    *npc*  Don’t let anyone in until I get back.  Do not let her leave, tell her I'm on my way and to sit tight until I get there.

     

    Little white lies.  She would end up hating him too.

     

    The old beat-up phone disappeared into his pocket.  He stared at the man a moment, intense regret in his eyes.  Did he tell the man she’d just torched a gun shop that he believed belong to a creep-in on Bakkhos territory?  The little naive but fearless shit-kicker may have just started a war?

     

    Yes.  Full disclosure at this point.

     

    *npc*  She’s pretty banged up, back at the shop.  Scotch and the guys are on her.  Don't get close.  She will not hesitate to pull the trigger on your guy.

     

    Sigh blew out long through tense lips.

     

    *npc* She blames you, for killing Gio.  We need to go somewhere we can talk. I have a lot to tell you.

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    She listened as the gun slid away once more. At least Bills seemed not to be on a warpath against Gaspari. The tremors in his words spoke of truths. She could hear lies better than most lie detectors.

     

    [npc] …he didn’t want her to turn into.. this… she isn't, this.[/npc]

     

    [gaspari]…she is family.[/gaspari]

     

    The quiet correction spoke volumes. It was this conviction that drew the most unlikely of allies together under the Bakkhos banner. Head tilted behind his shoulder slightly, hearing the phone a split second before normal ears could as the signal reached the dinosaur technology. She could hear the relief in the actual exhale of air.

     

    [npc] She’s pretty banged up, back at the shop. Scotch and the guys are on her. Don't get close. She will not hesitate to pull the trigger on your guy. [/npc]

     

    Smirk ghosted her lips only to be mimicked by a faint chuckle from Gaspari.

     

    [gaspari]…she can pull it… hitting him's another story.[/gaspari]

     

    [npc] She blames you, for killing Gio. We need to go somewhere we can talk. I have a lot to tell you.[/npc]

     

    There was a sound in Gaspari's breath that she didn’t fully understand. Regret? Sicilian head shook with a frown.

     

    [gaspari]…he was supposed to take….[/gaspari]

     

    He didn’t finish the thought. Clearly De Luca was not supposed to be on his own that night. Nodding he pivoted, Derrick pausing to let the grizzled member of the family follow the head of Bakkhos as she brought up the rear and ensured their privacy was maintained as they headed to Gaspari's office.

     

    This had turned into an interesting night. She was suddenly not so ticked off she was there on her night off as the steel door that kept prying eyes and ears out of the office was closed behind them.

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