Last piece on the chess board

The agent sucking on an old toothpick leaned back in his chair, "You mafiosos are all the same, you walk around thinking you're untouchable," he began. "The Bertinelli name means nothing in here."

Saint's eyes remained fixed on the table in front of him. He wasn't about to give these assholes the satisfaction of a reaction. This ranting and power play moves had been going on for hours, it was starting to get old.

Just when Saint thought he might actually die of boredom, another agent walked in. He was a bulky man with a neatly pressed suit, his face set into a stone-cold expression. Wordlessly, he tossed a thick blue folder on top of the table, the weight of it sending a resounding slap through the room.

Saint's gaze flicked at the folder, then back to the new agent who smiled—a slow, deliberate smirk that tightened Saint's hackles.

"We've been busy," the agent said with false politeness. "And you? You've been very busy too commiting high level crimes, haven't you, Santino?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Saint's hand instinctively reached for a beaded bracelet his nonna had gifted him, a habit he'd developed whenever he felt trapped.

"Oh, I think you do."

The agent flipped the folder open, revealing a series of photographs. Clear images of shipments, bank transactions, off-the-book meetings and even conversations captured in poorly lit back rooms.

The last photo made Saint's heart drop, it was of Nico meeting up with Richie Olsen, a big mineral collector, in dark corners of Bertinelli shipping containers surrounded by armed men and crates filled with tones of red diamond, jadeite and blue garnet. One thing was obvious though, this was an illegal minerals dealing going down.

"I thought you might want to see what your brother has been up to," the agent said, his smirk widening into a toothy grin as he watched recognition cross Saint's face. "You know what this means, don't you? These aren't just petty crimes. This is organized crime on a scale that gets people life sentences."

Saint let out a cold laugh. "Congratulations. You've got a couple of pictures and some numbers on paper?" he sneered. "And now you're linking my businesses to organized crime?" his voice dripped with sarcasm, even though the last photo had rattled him.

How the hell had they gotten that?

"You still want to play the oblivious card?"

Seems Carlos had impeccable timing because that's exactly when he walked in. "Gentlemen, I trust you're familiar with the Fifth Amendment?" he glared at the two agents. "Because I'll be filing for coercive interrogation practices and malicious prosecution if my client's rights aren't being upheld."

The agents exchanged looks before silently exiting the room. Carlos waited for the door to shut behind them before taking the seat across Saint.

"Those vultures," he cussed. "Are you alright?"

"Given the situation?" Saint nodded, rubbing his temple. "What are we looking at?"

Carlos hesitated. "If they push everything they have—RICO, tax evasion, conspiracy, illegal mineral dealings—you're looking at life in prison. I can get the years down if you agree to sign a deal."

"And what's the deal?" Saint asked, running a hand over his face.

"Best offer on the table right now? Twelve years. That's if you're willing to cooperate and plead guilty."

"Twelve years?" Saint let out a bitter laugh. "That's a lifetime," the room seemed to be fading away from his vision. "I'll be forty-two by the time I get out."

"Looks like there's been a rat in the family." Carlos brow dipped into a scowl. "And whoever it is gave the feds enough ammo to take you and the rest of the family down."

Saint scoffed. "Tell me what I already don't know."

Carlos stared at him for a long moment then exhaled.

"What?"

"Nico's considering to proceed with Plan B."

"No," Saint shook his head. "There's gotta be another way."

"I usually don't agree with your brother's methods but..." Carlos trailed before lowering his voice. "It might be the only way."

A heavy silence filled the room before a guard entered, eyes locked on Carlos while tapping on his wrist. "Mr. Becker, time."

Carlos stood, smoothing down his jacket. "Just... think about what I said." He turned to leave, but paused at the door. "By the way, Roman came with me. He wants to see you."

"Roman?" Saint took in a sharp breath and for a moment, he felt something unfamiliar twist in his chest.

He hadn't expected that.

Carlos was carefully watching Saint. "He's waiting outside. I can put him on the visitors list—"

"No."

"No?"

"Tell him to go home," Saint said gruffly. "He doesn't belong in here."

Carlos nodded and gave Saint one last look filled with concern before walking out of the room.

***

Roman was standing in the front lobby of the Chicago FBI field offices, both hands shoved deep into his pants pockets. He was trying to hide just how much they were trembling. Every time the door to the holding cells moved, Roman hoped to see Carlos coming out with some sorts of good news.

Finally, there he was. The bastard. He had gone for so long.

The second he saw the lawyer step out, Roman walked briskly to meet him halfway. "Well?"

"He doesn't want to see you." Carlos said softly. "I'm sorry."

Roman froze mid-step. It was as if someone had just pulled the floor out from under him. "What?" His voice wavered, disbelief crashing into him like a tidal wave. "I don't understand..." Roman's lips parted, then closed again. "Did he say why?" He blinked rapidly. "I have to talk to him! He needs to know—"

"Roman." Carlos stepped closer, cutting him off. "We should go."

"This is bullshit!"

"Roman..." Carlos's tone was pleading, a silent request for Roman to get it together.

Without much of a warning Roman turned on his heel and stalked toward the exit with Carlos following closely behind. "I just needed five minutes with him," he muttered, more to himself than Carlos. "Five goddamn minutes!"

In a flash of anger, Roman kicked a trash can, sending papers and coffee cups flying across the sidewalk. 

"Take a deep breath, okay?" Carlos felt as if he were dealing with a man child. Seriously.

As they climbed into Carlos's car, Roman slammed the door shut. Seconds later Carlos pulled away from the curb, weaving through the bustling streets of Chicago.

"I don't get it," Roman stared out the tinted window. "Why won't he see to me?"

Carlos kept his eyes on the road. "Maybe he needs time, Roman. You can't force him."

"He doesn't have time!" Roman shot back, turning to face Carlos, his voice rising. "It will be already too late by the time he's ready."

Carlos glanced at him brows furrowed, "What do you mean too late? You think something's going to happen to him?"

Yeah more like Nico is possibly selling Saint out and you work for him?

"You wouldn't understand." Roman said instead.

"Listen, if there's something you're worried about—"

"Forget it, okay?"

***

Exactly five days later, the hearing date was set. Saint would've to appear in front of a judge and have his case presented before moving to trial. Saint impatiently tapped his free hand against a communal phone booth as he waited, listening to the static hum of the line connecting. It felt like forever before a familiar voice finally answered.

"What the hell is going on, Saint?" It was Nico. "Carlos said you got hit with everything."

"Yeah." Saint glanced over his shoulder, lowering his voice. "They've got more than we expected, all the shit we thought was buried deep. Prepare for a raid any day from now."

Nico let out a string of Sicilian curses. "You still want this to go to trial?"

"No way, that was before everything went down to shit," Saint muttered, gripping the receiver tighter. "We have to do it."

"Plan B?" Nico's voice dropped by a few decibels. "Are you sure? Once this ball starts rolling, you can't stop it. There's no turning back."

"I know."

"We lose one step and you're back in the cage, Saint."

Saint exhaled slowly, resting his head against the glass of the booth. "I'm already locked up, Nico," he said quietly. "This is the only chance I have left."

"Alright. I'll set everything up. Just... hang in there."

Saint nodded, even though Nico couldn't see him. "Make sure you cover every track. We can't afford any mistakes."

"I'll get it done."

Before hanging up, Saint added, "Nico? Be careful."

"You too, brother."

***

It was around 11PM the same night Nico had received a call from Saint. He swiftly moved through a dark alleyway somewhere west of Chicago, stopping in front of a steel door at the end of the alley.

The streets were empty, except for one or two late night revelers. Glancing around to make sure he wasn't followed, Nico delivered two raps against the steel and a narrow slot slid open.

A gravelly voice grunted, "Bertinelli?"

"Who else could it be?"

The bloodshot eyes behind the door blinked, then the slot shut with a loud clank. A few seconds later, the door creaked open, its rusty hinges screaming into the night.

Nico stepped inside the dimly room with a bare bulb swinging from the ceiling. His nose immediately scrunching after getting hit by a wave of thick stale air and the smell of cigarettes and cheap cologne.

"About damn time," Brooks, an FBI agent who's been on the Bertinelli payroll for years sneered. "Thought you might have changed your mind after all."

Nico ignored the comment. "You have the plan?"

Brooks smirked but it was his colleague Castillo who stepped forward, a manila folder in hand. "Everything you requested for is here. Transport schedule, guard rotations, we've pinpointed the convoy's route. You've got a ten-minute window tops," he tapped the map again. "They'll be transporting your brother along this stretch of highway and that's where we create the diversion."

"This is airtight?" Nico asked scanning through the documents. "No surprises?"

Brooks let out a laugh laced with a touch of bronchitis, pulling a cigarette from his lips and flicking the ash to the floor. "As airtight as anything can be in this business. You should know that by now. But yeah, it will hold if you play your part right."

"I don't need you to tell me how to play my part," Nico growled. "I need to know the plan is solid."

These two were the kind of men who'd sell out their own mothers if the price was right. They'd already proved loyalty could be bought by pissing on their badges.

"Remember you're paying for an extraction, not a miracle," Castillo said. "Our end is solid. If you screw this up, that's on you."

Nico's lips thinned into a line as he closed the folder and slipped it under his arm. "Let's talk numbers then."

Brooks swung his boots off the table and leaned forward, grinning. "Five hundred grand now."

"We figured you wouldn't mind paying a little extra for priority service." Castillo inserted himself in the conversation once again. "After all you wouldn't want the office to catch a wind of this, would you?"

A muscle in Nico's jaw ticked as he set a black backpack on the table, unzipping it to reveal neatly stacked bundles of cash. "Count it," he said flatly.

Castillo's eyes gleamed as he reached for the bag, flipping through the bills quickly. He smelled the rest of the stacks then after a few deep breaths, he gave Brooks a nod.

"Looks good," he said, zipping the bag up.

"Now as for the other five hundred..." Brooks was clearly enjoying the power he thought he had in the situation. "We'll collect when your brother is sipping espresso in Sicily."

"Pleasure doing business with you, Bertinelli," said Castillo. "Will be in touch."

Nico didn't bother responding before he left. At the entrance of the alley, he spotted Alessandro on his famous black Ducati. "How'd you get here so fast?" he had told him where he was headed before meeting with Castillo and Brooks.

"I was around this area." Alessandro supplied. "So, how'd it go?"

"Plan B is in motion." Nico reached for a pack of Sobranie from his pocket and lit one. Before he could take a drag out of it, Alessandro was all up in his space snatching the cigarette away from his lips.

"Bad habit," he grumbled, grinding the smoldering cigarette into the pavement with his combat boot.

Nico groaned. "You know I hate when you do that."

"I'm looking out for you."

"How about you don't!"

A heavy silence settled between them and Nico realized he might have been a little melodramatic with the yelling. "Sorry," he murmured. "This whole thing with Saint is a lot."

Alessandro studied him for a bit offering nothing. He reached for a helmet hanging on the left bar and tossed it to Nico who caught it with a raised brow. "Get on, we've got work to do," is all Alessandro said.

"You should wear the helmet." Nico mumbled.

The corner of Alessandro's lips tugged into a slow smile. "I've taken worse hits than a fall from a bike, Niccolo." He revved the engine. "You'll need your head in one piece. Put it on."

"Is that your way of saying you love me?"

Alessandro snorted. "You wish cazzone."

Nico laughed pulling the helmet on and swung his leg over the Ducati. "Men who ride and kill for a living get my blood going," he leaned in to whisper in Alessandro's ear.

"Nico..."

"Forgive me," Nico sighed. "I'm a mess." As his hands found Alessandro's waist, he could feel the tension coiled in his whole body.

Tense was good. It meant they were human after all.

The engine roared to life, cutting through the quiet of the night as they sped into the open streets. Nico closed his eyes briefly, his mind replaying the conversation he'd had with his brother.

"We have to do it."

Plan B

The last piece on the chess board.