A knock clicked through the doorway, and Celine sighed, inconvenienced by the second disturbance in one day. She pushed aside her notes and crossed her legs, leaning back in her seat.

"Come in," she ordered.

The door swung open, and Blank walked in, his movements minimized. Like he felt small in Celine's presence—insecure.

And he had every right to be.

Blank stood in front of Celine's desk and folded his hands in front of himself, vacant eyes gazing down at her. She rose her brows at him, urging him to say something, and the man carefully exhaled.

"I have their location," he said quietly.

Celine's lashes fluttered, and she stilled.

"How'd you do that?" she breathed.

"Edwards," said Blank. "He called Dumont a few hours ago. I tracked it."

Celine ran a hand along her chin and nodded, eyeing Blank. "Did she give anything away?"

"Almost," he said. He shifted on his feet. "She'll be meeting him tonight. Some cafe." He tipped his head. "It'd be wise to tap her."

Celine nodded, satisfaction thrumming in her chest. She hadn't expected for things to turn out this way, so she didn't have a plan... but she'd come up with one eventually. Perhaps a chat between Edwards and Dumont was all that needed to happen. After all, there was a search out on both the businessman and Warfstache, so if they made their appearances public...

Celine smiled, and she waved a hand at Blank. "Tap Dumont before she heads out," she said. "From there, we do nothing."

"Nothing?"

Celin's black lips curled up into something more devious, and her eyes went half-lidded. "Have Freddie Lounds follow her," she said. "Make sure she knows she musn't be seen. All she needs to do is watch, listen to the taps, and report back to me."

Blank bowed his head. "I'll keep you updated," he said.

Celine nodded, waving a dismissive hand, and the man left, shutting the door behind him.

———

"U.A. Cafe," said Dark. "That's where Mark and I would go to avoid the paparazzi. It's crammed in an alleyway, it's like an easy hideaway."

    "Well, that's bad for business," Wilford mumbled.

    "There's something wrong here," said Host.

    Dark nodded. "Dumont didn't sound right," he said. "Even if something bad happened, she wouldn't sound like that. I know her well enough."

    Wilford folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward, brows furrowed. "She was saying something," he said. "Near the end." He glanced up, met Host's gaze, then Dark's. His eyes bore into his with a heat that seared the room, and he said:

"I don't think she was alone."

Dark carefully exhaled, and he shuddered under Wilford's gaze. "You seriously think so?"

Host nodded. "Her responses were forced," he said. "I have a feeling someone else is behind this."

Wilford leaned towards Dark and held his gaze. "We know that whoever poisoned you is powerful," he said. "They have enough influence to hire Freddie Lounds and stage all this, and while your Dumont friend fits the profile, what we just heard..." He shook his head. "That's not the voice of a sadistic bastard, but someone who's under one's thumb."

Wilford flashed a grin for a moment. "Trust me," he said. "I know."

Dark scoffed at that, and he glanced between Host and Wil. "What now?" he breathed. "Madam Dumont told me to meet her at that cafe, but what if it's a trap?"

"It may very well be," said Host. "We'll have to look at this from every angle before making a decision."

Wilford huffed, and he drummed his fingers against the desk, brows furrowed in thought. "I don't get it," he slurred. "First, they make the whole city believe I kidnapped someone. And now—what... I've set him free?'"

Host ran a hand over the side of his face, and he glanced at Dark. "Edwards," he said. "What exactly is that cafe like?" He turned towards him. "Dumont had to have chosen that specific place for a reason."

"Very little people know about it," said Dark. "Like I said, Mark and I would go there to hide. If there's anyone there, they'd mind their own business. It's a place for peace and quiet."

"Maybe that's what they want," said Host.

"Or maybe that's Dumont going against orders," said Wilford. "She hung up before you gave away the location, Dark. If someone really was there with her, she knows what she's doing."

Dark ran a hand over his mouth, and he nodded. "You're right..."

"We still have to be careful, though," said Host. "Even with this evidence, it's still speculation. We can't confirm whether or not Dumont is the one behind this."

"Well, there's only one way to find out," said Wilford. He stood up. "I'll go."

———

As night fell over L.A, and the city grew with its blinding lights, Wilford got ready.

    Originally, Host had gone against the idea, but he knew that once the mob boss had made up his mind, it was set in stone. He'd always been like that, even when they were younger. For a kid who grew up suppressed under an abusive father's thumb, it made sense he desired control and the freedom to do whatever he wanted, when he wanted.

    But they were playing a dangerous game, and one wrong move could ruin everything for them.

    "You're staying here," said Wilford, fixing up his hair in the mirror. Dark shifted behind him, his brows furrowing.

    "Madam Dumont knows me," said the businessman. "She's expecting me."

    Wilford scoffed out a laugh and smoothed his hands over his shirt, making sure he was presentable. His golden revolver hung in the holster around his hips on full display. He wasn't about to hide his weapon, especially if this were a trap.

    "And what makes you think she'd approach you kindly?" said Wilford, turning around. He slipped out his gun and walked towards Dark, lazily pointing it at him. The businessman stilled. "We may be similar, Dark, but when it comes to things like these, you don't approach it like business."

    He stopped feet in front of Dark and shifted the gun so he held it in his palm—offering the weapon to him. Dark eyed it carefully.

    "You don't trust the people you make deals with in the mafia," said Wilford, narrowing his eyes at the other. "You can't even trust your own people, not entirely. In this world, it's either you or the person stronger that stamps you out."

    Wilford's eyes flicked down to the gun between them. "So, until you're comfortable around these things..." He lifted the gun for emphasis, then slipped it back into his holster. "You're staying here."

    Dark's jaw set, and he evenly exhaled. "What if it's a trap?" he said.

    Wilford smirked, and he rose a brow, resting a hand atop his gun. "I know what I'm doing, sweetheart," he slurred. "You just sit here and wait." He flicked his eyes around the bedroom. "The whole mansion's yours while we're gone. Make yourself at home."

    Dark frowned, fingers twitching at his sides, and he watched as Wilford left the room and shut the door, leaving him alone.

———

The driver, Jim, rolled the car out of the driveway and onto the road.

    He'd chosen a slyer vehicle—a '69 Camaro in dark pink. It would be impossible to be unseen in a city with flashing lights and endless partygoers, but at least they didn't stick out like a sore thumb.

    Host sat in the passenger seat while Wilford sat in the back, his body splayed over the seats and face hidden from the windows. Even if people looked their way, they couldn't see the mafia boss.

    "What do you think Dumont wants?" said Host once they rode into the bustling city. Even as night wore on, it felt alive.

    Wilford hummed, and he pulled out a cigarette and held it at his lips. "Hell if I know," he said, bringing out a lighter. "Maybe she wanted to poison Dark again, just for the hell of it."

    Jim rolled down the windows, and a soft breeze blew in, along with the noise and music of the city. Lights filtered through the car, highlighting their faces.

    "You shouldn't smoke in the car," said Jim, glancing at Wil through the rearview mirror. "It's a classic."

    Wilford lit his cigarette and sucked in a deep breath, the paper crinkling with embers and his lungs filling with smoke. He tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and exhaled, filling the car with a cloud of smoke.

    "My car," he said, "my rules." His eyes slid onto the road ahead. "Say, do you even know where you're going?"

    "We're almost there," said Jim. "Keep your eyes peeled, though. I'll need help finding which alleyway it's in."

    The car slowed as they neared their destination, and Host looked around, searching. After a while, the glint of a sign caught his eye, and he pointed.

    "There," he said. "Right by that shop."

    Jim slowed to a stop on the side of the road, and the air in the car went tight. The noise of the city faded into the backdrop as the preview of the cafe came into view—a windowless place, crammed into an alleyway and made of corroding bricks. The circular, black and white sign was the only source of light in the area.

    Host shifted in his seat and looked back, meeting Wilford's eyes. They were darker, highlighted only by the embers of his cigarette when he took a drag. He carefully exhaled the smoke into the car and tipped his head back.

    "I shouldn't be running into any trouble tonight," said Wilford, eyes half-lidded. "You know the drill if we do." His eyes flicked onto Jim, and he nodded, fingers flexing over the wheel.

    Wilford sat up, and Host got out and opened the door for him, letting him out. The mob boss glanced down both sides of the street and flicked his ashes on the ground.

    "I won't be long," he said. "Stay nearby."

    Host nodded, and he got back in the car and shut the door. Wilford gave another glance at his surroundings before circling around the car and heading down the alleyway, his heels clicking on the pavement and echoing all around him.

    The door to the cafe was a small, rickety thing, accented with their business hours etched in white. He pulled it open just as he took a drag of his cigarette, and he stepped into the cafe, examining his surroundings. A bell chimed as the door shut behind him.

    It was a quaint little place. Wooden shelves lined the walls, cluttered with trinkets, and furniture cramped the place in a way that made it feel like walking through a maze. The floors were checkerboard, and the lights were vintage. A small counter cramped up ahead, and an employee with her hair tucked into a hat jogged up, eyes landing on Wilford's conflicting figure. Her eyes widened at the sight of him, face paling a degree.

    What was he doing here?

    The 'employee,' Freddie Lounds, stepped back and said nothing, hoping her cover was enough to conceal her identity. So far, she hadn't been noticed.

    Wilford sucked in a drag of his cigarette and looked around, finding only a single customer in the cafe. His eyes landed on Deja Dumont, huddled in the corner—and when she looked up and met eyes with him, the cafe went deathly quiet.

    Deja paled.

    Her face fell, her eyes widened, and every bit of her went stiff. Everything around her faded into a messy blur, focusing solely on the man at the door.

She'd been warned about Wilford Warfstache. Had heard terrible stories about him, had warned Mr. Edwards to avoid him... She'd seen the mob boss at the party, dancing with Dark, and even then, she felt fear.

But now, pinned under his gaze—knowing that he was staring at her, at only her—had her very insides twisting and turning.

From behind the counter, Freddie carefully brought out her phone, and when she was sure Wilford wasn't looking, she snapped a pic of him. Then zoomed in on his gun, then zoomed in on Deja.

She rushed into the staff room, and once the door clicked shut, the tension in the room doubled, held by strings.

Wilford sucked in a drag and walked forward, every click of his heels menacing. He went right up to Deja's table, slid back a chair, and sat right across from her, his face deadpan, eyes filled with the intent to kill.

Smoke spiraled from Wilford's lips, and he crushed out his cigarette on the table. It hissed under the pressure, ashes crumbling onto the table. Deja swallowed and sat up, her posture tight. She didn't dare say a word; didn't trust herself to.

Wilford set the cigarette on the table and leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. His eyes never once left Deja's face; made sure she knew her place, when he looked at her. Made sure she was uncomfortable.

He tipped his chin up at her.

"You wanted to meet Dark here," he said, his voice low. Commanding. "Why?"

Deja's breath shallowed, and she fidgeted in her seat. "I... wanted to talk," she said, the tremble in her voice faint but unmistaken. "To be honest, I wasn't expecting him to actually come." She swallowed. "I guess you came, instead."

Dumont shifted in her seat again, and when she did, she kept a careful hand at the breast pocket of her suit. Wilford's eyes narrowed.

"I figured in light of recent events," said Wil, "it'd be dangerous for him to go out."

Deja swallowed. "Have you hurt him?"

Wilford leaned forward, and he ran his eyes down Deja's figure, examining her. She sucked in a breath at the gesture, unease in her every movement.

Wilford's eyes flicked up onto hers.

"What do you have against Dark?" he breathed.

Deja's brows furrowed at that, and she shook her head. "I... What do you mean?" she asked. "He's one of my closest associates. A friend, even. I don't have anything against him."

Wilford hummed, and he nodded to himself, not buying it. He ran a finger along the table. "Dark is one of the most powerful and influential people in the U.S," he said, gazing at Dumont steadily. "He's got a lot of money... people... fame." His gaze never once lost its intensity. "You've always been a close second to him, haven't you?"

Deja's brows furrowed. "It's never been about rank," she said. "We handle completely different avenues of business. If anything, we're equal in our success."

"But if Dark happened to be removed," said Wilford, "wouldn't that open up an opportunity to go bigger?"

Dumont searched Wilford's face, and she carefully shook her head. "No... actually," she said. "It's been hell without him. If he left, it wouldn't just ruin his career. It'd affect everyone else's." She tried not to shrink under Wil's gaze. "Everything would shut down, everyone would lose everything they've built up for. Including me."

Wilford rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. "So why is it," he said, "that you poisoned him?"

The words were like a punch to the face.

Deja's mouth fell open, and her brows shot up. "Excuse me?" she said, in disbelief. "Are you—" She rose with energy, emotion rising up her throat. "Are you accusing me of poisoning my own associate? My closest business partner, the one who helped me get to where I am now?"

She stood up, and she pointed at Wilford, shaking. "You kidnapped him," she said, voice rising. "You're the reason everyone's been freaking out, and you're the reason Mr. Edwards hasn't been seen!"

Wilford carefully rose a brow, unaffected by her outburst. She wasn't done.

"Have you any idea how worried about him I've been?" she seethed. "How everyone else is?" She threw her hands about. "The cops have been searching high and low for him, and—and you just show up and accuse me!"

Wilford's eyes flicked over Deja's figure, and in her fit of motion, he spotted the flash of a wire beneath her jacket.

He stopped.

His heart spiked up, and a strong sense of urgency flooded through his body.

A wiretap.

"Empty your pockets," ordered Wilford.

Deja floundered for words, and she looked at him like he was crazy. "What?"

Wilford stood, and he brought out his gun, pointing it right at Deja. The woman stiffened and threw her hands up, stepping back.

"I said," seethed Wilford. "Empty. Your. Pockets."

"I-I have nothing on me!" Deja protested, brows furrowing. "Believe me, I'm unarmed—"

"No, that's not it," said Wilford. He flicked his gun towards her, and she swallowed, shrinking back. "Your pocket." He motioned to the breast of her suit. "That one."

Deja stilled, and she looked over her shoulder for an escape. Except there was none. She'd done one of the most amateur things and sat right in the corner, giving Wilford the advantage to kill her, right then and there.

She breathed hard.

As much as she hated Blank, and Celine, and the terrible people she'd enlisted, she needed their help right now. She needed their help to escape, to get out of this mess.

But she knew no one was around.

She was just a tool now. Something to be used for their benefit, something that could be easily discarded once their needs were met.

She was done for.

"Mr. Warfstache, really—" managed Deja, "I don't have anything—"

Wilford clicked back the gun, and Dumont's breath hitched. She cowered when he pointed it at her, right at her head.

"Madam Dumont..." said Wilford carefully, taking a step closer. "Go and be a dear... and take out the tap... from your pocket."

He leveled the gun in her gaze, and he flicked it towards her jacket again, brows raising for emphasis.

"Go on," he said.

Deja swallowed, and she eyed Wilford's finger on the trigger. It was heavy on there—not light or absent. Which meant he was serious.

When Wilford Warfstache held a gun to someone, he had the intent to use it.

Dumont breathed hard, and with a strangled breath, she gave in. She bowed her head and reached into her breast pocket, pulling out a small, padded mic. As she brought it out, the wire followed after, which ended at a miniature, black box. Deja carefully brought her arm out, offering the wiretap.

Wilford sucked in a breath and narrowed his eyes at the offensive tech, gently prying it out of her hand. He kept the gun trained on her with one hand, the other turning the mic at all angles. Examining it. A small red light blinked from the black box.

Wilford glanced over at Deja and lifted the mic, his expression hard.

"Can they hear me right now?" he said quietly.

Deja's jaw clenched and unclenched, and after a while, she forced herself to nod. Wilford sucked in a breath and exhaled, his fingers itching to punch something.

But this was good news, in a way. This meant that Deja wasn't the overseer of this operation. That she was a pawn, a piece to be used for something bigger. Maybe she did poison Dark (whether or not willingly, he didn't know yet), but she had someone behind the scenes calling all the shots.

Wilford brought the mic up to his lips and exhaled steadily, keeping his eyes—and the gun—leveled on Deja.

"Whoever this is," he said carefully, voice low, "I am not playing your game."

Deja swallowed, and she watched Wilford. She knew someone was on the other line, listening, but she didn't know if it was Blank or Celine. If it were the latter, however...

Dread flooded her body.

"You think you can mess with my reputation," breathed Wilford, "and get away with it?"

Deja trembled.

"I'll find out who you are," he seethed, glaring down his gun and at Dumont. "And once I do, I will kill you my goddamn self. Think of it as a courtesy."

The staff door swung open again, and the employee rushed around the counter, holding her phone and a crowbar. Her green eyes were wide, but her brows were furrowed with determination, even as she came closer.

Deja spotted her over Wilford's shoulder, and she paled. Through the adrenaline, and the need to run, she didn't recognize it was Freddie. Didn't recognize her even as she spoke.

"Hey!" the employee yelled. "Leave her alone!"

Wilford straightened himself, and he glanced over his shoulder, meeting eyes with the woman. She pointed the phone at him, her other hand ready to swing the crowbar.

"I'm recording everything!" she shouted, her voice loud and clear. "So step away from her or I'll report this to the FBI!"

Wilford stilled a moment, irritation blossoming under his skin... and then he pulled the gun from Deja and pointed it at the employee.

The air went tight.

"I-I'm serious!" yelled Freddie. "If you don't get out of here, I'll—"

Wilford pulled the trigger.

The gunshot exploded with noise, and blood sprayed the walls. Freddie's body fell back, and everything she held crashed to the floor. Blood expanded on the ground in a pool of red, glistening around Freddie's head and sticking to her hair; it had been freed during the fall, the hat long discarded, and Deja recognized her in an instant.

Deja clapped her hands over her mouth, staggered back, and screamed.

Tears flooded her eyes, and she shook her head, but no matter what she did, she couldn't escape the sight of Freddie's body on the floor, couldn't escape the smell of blood, of death crowding her senses.

She never cared for Freddie Lounds. But the sight of her dead body and the fact that Wilford had just killed her made her panic.

Wilford stood there a moment, head bowed as he looked down at Freddie, his hair shrouding his face from view. The gun hung at his side, and then he lifted the mic to his lips, his voice calm... serene.

Dangerous.

"Freddie Lounds," he said carefully, taking in her features. Her hair now matted with blood. "You really must be a bigshot... all this effort." His eyes narrowed. "You offered her protection, didn't you? That's why she agreed to work with you."

Wilford's eyes trailed over to her phone on the floor, the lens now covered in blood. Elation rose through him, and he bent down to pick it up, letting it rest heavy in his palm. He tested the weight and pocketed it, blood smearing his hands, his pants.

Then he turned to Deja.

"I'll have you know," breathed Wilford into the mic, "that I don't take shit from nobody."

Wilford dropped the mic onto the floor, and he crushed it with his heel, grinding it into bits and pieces. Deja flinched, and when the mafia boss looked up at her, she pressed herself into the corner.

"Come with me," ordered Wilford.

Deja's face paled.

"W-what?"

"Do I really have to repeat myself?" said Wil, his face dark.

Deja swallowed, and she shook her head, hesitantly stepping forward. Every part of her screamed to run away—to get as far away from Wilford as she could—but she knew that wouldn't be an option. Not when he was the one with the gun.

It was like walking straight into a shark's jaws, knowing exactly what the result would be.

Dumont stopped feet away from Wilford, and the mafia boss grabbed her arm and began to drag her, bringing her with him out the cafe. Panic swelled in Deja's chest, her heart pounded, and she couldn't help but struggle, tripping after the man.

A car rumbled up ahead, and a man with an eyepatch stood next to an open door, his presence like a bad omen. Host's eye narrowed at the sight of them, and he tipped his head at Wilford.

"Are we in a rush?" he said.

Wilford tugged Deja forward, and he shoved her into the back of the car. She shouted, head hitting against the seats.

"It'd be smart to get moving," said Wil. "Someone's bound to report the gunshot."

Host nodded, and Wilford clambered into the back of the car. Host sat in the passenger, shut the door, and Jim sped down the street, getting as far away from the cafe as they could.

Weight fell over the car and sucked the energy out of the air.

Deja shook in the back seat, pressing herself into corner. Her shallow breaths filled the silence.

"Where are you taking me?" she demanded.

They completely ignored her. Wilford pulled out another cigarette and lit it, and Host kept his eyes on the road, staring. The heaviness in the air never once left, tightening when Host shifted in his seat and carefully inhaled.

"Who did you shoot?" said Host, his voice quiet.

Wilford pocketed his lighter and sucked in a drag, his brows furrowing. The heat filled his lungs, and he exhaled, closing his eyes.

"Freddie Lounds," he said.

The name made the car go quiet, and everyone inside stilled. Even Jim's hands flexed over the wheel, unease rising through his skin.

Host sucked in a breath and exhaled.

"You shot... who?" he breathed. He glanced in the rearview mirror and met Wilford's eyes, his expression tight. "She was working with the enemy. She had information that we could have used."

"It was an accident, I swear," said Wilford as he rested his cigarette at his lips and pulled out Freddie's phone, holding it over Host's shoulder. The man stilled a moment before taking it, the blood on its surface glinting under the city lights.

"What is this?" he breathed.

"Information," said Wilford, voice low. "And Lounds wasn't the only one working with them."

Wilford turned his head towards Deja, and Host followed after, glancing over his shoulder. Heat twisted in the car, and Dumont swallowed, shifting under their gazes.

"She still could have poisoned Dark," said Wilford, pulling his eyes away from Deja. "But it was someone else's idea first." His eyes glinted. "She was tapped."

Host gazed at Deja for a moment, considered her, and turned to Wil.

"What do we do with her?" he said.

...

OKAY, I have a question for you!

What are your thoughts on the pacing of this fic so far?

I understand the story is dragging already, and by god, I'm really hoping it doesn't end up as long as "Strangulate" LMFAO. I want to speed things along, but I also don't want the story to feel rushed!! Because that is, honestly, just as bad as a super-long story. So, please do give feedback/constructive criticism for lil old me! <3

Aside from that, thank you so much for reading, and have a wonderful day!

Love, Vic xoxo