After hours of scouring the city, Dark needed to rest.

    He'd gone from searching places he thought Celine would go, down to asking individual people on the street, "Have you seen this man anywhere?" while pointing at his phone.

    Once he started getting recognized, and a few people tried confirming his identity, he had to find a place to hide. He started to curse himself for neglecting the inner workings of the city. He'd worked day and night at the top, looking down at all of L.A., rather than actually walking in and through it.

    He had no idea where to go to properly hide. And the only place he did know was U.A. Cafe, a perfect spot where he and Mark went to avoid the paparazzi, and where Deja had asked to meet him only months ago.

    Eventually, Dark went inside Lato, the nearest restaurant/cafe. Noise gently clinked around him—people chatting, cutlery flashing and glasses toasting—and with a sigh of relief, he seated himself at a table by the door, gazing out the glass walls of the building.

    The lights hung dim around them, adding to the ambience of Lato, but Dark could still see his reflection in the glass. He looked tired—more stressed than usual. His coat collar pulled up to his throat, defining the hollows of his face. The darkness of his eyes and the slight disarray of his hair.

    Damn Wilford, he thought, fists clenching under the table. And damn Celine.

    But deep down, his anger for them was stronger for himself. For indulging in this life he couldn't have, for daring a taste of the mafia, or the mob boss himself. For allowing his pursuits to affect those around him: Deja, who had become Celine's pawn against her will. And Mark, who was being used for bait.

    Movement stirred him from his thoughts, and he glanced over, meeting eyes with a blonde waitress.

    "Evening, sir," she said, voice light. "Can I get you anything to drink?"

    As much as Dark longed for more alcohol, the buzz fading in the back of his skull told him otherwise. He replied stiffly, "Coffee, please. Black."

    The waitress nodded and walked off.

    Dark sighed and ran a hand through his hair, trying to come up with other ways to find Mark. He had to come up with something, anything, but the harder he tried, the less he could come up with, and the more frustrated he got.

    He's going to die because of you, jeered that darker part of him, the one he always tried to tame. He's going to die, and it's all your fault.

    A coffee cup was set on his table—"thanks"—followed by a body sitting before him.

    Dark's eyes flicked up.

    "Mr. Edwards," came a smooth voice from sly, black-painted lips. One he recognized instantly. "How wonderful to see you in the flesh."

———

The dingy hotel room was a cramped space, stuffed with two beds and a door to a grimy bathroom.

    Wilford could've afforded much better, of course, but they needed to stay low. And besides, he had grown up in these kinds of conditions. Even with a life of luxury, he never forgot where he came from; what he'd been through to get where he is now.

    He sat on the bed nearest to the door, and Host and Jim sat on the other bed, facing him.

    They were silent for a moment. Wilford, unable to stop thinking about Dark; about his confession to Host.

    'I have feelings for him.'

    Host pulled out Freddie's phone and waved it gently. The device glinted under the sputtering lights from outside, which spilled in through the smudged window.

    "We have to think this through," said Host carefully. "One article might be the only shot we have."

    "What are we gonna say?" chimed Jim, leaning forward.

    Wilford rested his elbows on his knees and ran a hand over his mouth. "I'm not sure, yet..." he said. "But it has to bite her where it hurts."

———

Dark leaned back in his seat, stunned, as he took in the sight of Celine Larose.

    She gazed at him through hawkish eyes, black hair sweeping down the smooth angles of her face. Black lips smiled coyly at him, and her fingers laced delicately over the table. The paleness of her skin dipped into a V-necked slip dress, the black fabric hugging every sharp curve of her body.

    Dark carefully inhaled, worried the slightest breath would give him away. It took him a moment to find his voice—to pull himself together into his carefully crafted persona; one that matched her own. The one that got him to the top; that carved the path for his business.

    The entire time, Celine watched him, every shift of her eyes calculated.

    "You must be Celine," breathed Dark, forcing himself to sit straighter.

    His coffee cup steamed invitingly between them, but the moment he recognized Celine, he no longer wanted a drink. He didn't want a repeat of Fifth Street.

    "It's a shame," said Celine, fingers curling around the cup between them, "that you don't recognize me."

    She tipped the cup to her lips and sipped, her eyes never once breaking from Dark's gaze. The eye contact unsteadied him.

    "I'd say I'm surprised Markus hid me so well," she said, "but he loved his secrets." She set the cup down. "I've had a fun time burning each and every one of them to the ground."

    Dark's fists clenched under the table. I'm one of those secrets. To be labeled as such lit him up with fury.

    Celine noticed the emotion, even in the slightest twitch of his lips. Her eyes glittered.

    "Do you want to know how he died?" she said.

    Dark sharply inhaled, nails biting his palms. He'd tried so hard to heal those wounds—to forget them, push all that grief aside—and Celine was threatening to reopen them.

    "No," he said, jaw tight. "What have you done with Mark?"

    Celine let the question float in the air and slide past. "The funeral was open casket," she said, almost wistfully. "There was a bullet, straight through his head. I could have made it worse." Her finger circles the rim of the cup. "But I know how much he loved his face, so I killed him cleanly."

    Her eyes pierced through Dark's.

    "Of course, you would've known that," she said, "if you'd attended."

    I was grieving, he wanted to say to her, but he knew his words would be wasted.

    "If you're not going to tell me where Mark is," said Dark, sliding his chair back, "we're done here."

    "Ah, ah," said Celine, raising a delicate hand. "I've been watching you, Mr. Edwards."

    Dark, halfway out of his seat, narrowed his eyes at her. She continued with ease.

    "I didn't know Madam Dumont was in the hospital," she said smoothly, meeting his eyes. "Perhaps I should pay her a visit."

    Dark's mouth went dry.

    She heard the call. How?

    Dread filled Dark's throat, and as much as he wanted to spit a warning at her, he knew better than to let his tongue loose. She was looking for a reaction; something to make him tick.

    But it was enough to get him back into his seat.

    Satisfaction glittered in her eyes, and she leaned back in her chair, tilting her head at him. Dark met her gaze with a steady glare, every fiber of him on edge.

    This was different from when he first met Wilford. With the mafia boss, he was arrogant, intrigued. Drunk on a curiosity that urged him to indulge. But with Celine, he didn't meet heat or interest like he had with Wilford. He met a stare as cold as ice, words nettled and sharp enough they could kill.

    Sharp enough they could kill Mark.

    "What do you want, Celine?" said Dark, his voice low.

    Celine's eyes flashed, annoyed he used her name so easily. She didn't think filth like him deserved to address her at all.

    Despite her disgust, she continued on, gracefully ignoring Dark's demands.

    "I don't think you've met Blank," she said, searching his faze lazily. "He loves his patterns. Impresses me often with them." Her brows rose. "Especially now."

    She lifted the coffee cup, sipped, and set it back down.

    "You know, you're quite oblivious for someone with your status," she said. "Unaware of all the danger, right under your nose. I suppose that's why you got that bodyguard."

    She tipped her head, and from a far-off table—close enough to be in earshot—a body slowly rose, draped in an ill-fitting suit. Blank stood there, his eyes black in the dimness of the café.

    "Countless times, I could have killed you," said Celine.

    Dark carefully gazed at Blank from afar, his skin rising with goosebumps. He understood how Celine knew about his and Deja's call, now.

    Him.

    He could imagine Blank, blending into the shadows that always gripped the city; watching him as he searched tirelessly for Mark, focused on only that.

    "I could kill you now," said Celine, and Dark's eyes flicked onto her. "But here we are."

    Dark carefully inhaled, meeting her gaze. She lifted a finger, and Blank sank back into his seat from afar, the burn of his gaze never wavering.

    Just sitting here, Celine already had the upper hand. In a matter of minutes, she'd threatened Deja's life, showed just how vulnerable Dark was, and now—

    "I'm surprised Warfstache let you go," said Celine, crossing her legs. "You two hit it off better than I thought." Her lips curled into a smirk. "I assumed one would kill the other and make my job easier."

    She clapped her hands together, and Dark tensed.

    "But," she said, eyes alight, "this is much more fun."

    Now, she knew he was utterly, truly alone, open to any attack. His heart started to race in his chest.

    "Why are you out here, Mr. Edwards?" breathed Celine, elbow on the table. "After what I've done, nothing you do will be the same. Everything you've worked so hard to build... it's over."

    Dark's jaw tightened. "You're wrong," he said. "No matter what, people need me. Other businesses depend on me, and if you take me out of the equation—"

    Celine gently rose a hand, and Dark found himself trailing off.

    "You left Warfstache," she said, and it's a stab in his heart. "Why?"

    "It's none of your business," he said too quickly, and it was enough for her to see the hurt in his eyes, to hear the emotion in his voice.

    The edges of her lips quirked up, and Dark could practically see another plan twisting in those eyes. His stomach knotted with dread, wondering what she could possibly be thinking.

    "Here," said Celine, sliding a hand up her dress. She pulled a slim device from a thigh holster and set it on the table, sliding it forward. "I want you to have this."

    A phone. Dark glanced down at it, then frowned at her.

    "I'm not an idiot," he said, voice edging a growl.

    Celine's eyes went half-lidded, and she smiled.

    "If you don't keep it," she said, "you'll never see Mark again." She tapped the phone with a nail. "Text me, using this phone, anytime you'd like... and I'll give you a hint of where I'm keeping that bodyguard of yours." Her eyes glinted. "If I feel like it, of course."

    Dark's eyes narrowed, and he held her gaze. "I can't trust you," he said.

    "And I trusted my husband," she said, "and look where that got me." She rose her brows at Dark. "Take it, Mr. Edwards. You might like what you hear on the videos inside."

    She carefully stood up, and when Dark met her eyes one last time, he knew he would not, for any second, enjoy whatever the hell was on this phone.

    From afar, Blank stood as well, staring at Dark as he walked forward. Together, he and Celine left the building, and Dark watched them go, feeling sick to his stomach.

    Black lipstick stained his coffee cup like a bad omen.

———

Three bodies made it to the hospital. Two were given a room.

    Amy woke up with a head of cotton again, the pain she once felt suppressed by numbness. Dim lights hung around her, but it didn't do anything to lessen the sterile white walls and the floors.

    She craned her head to the side and found a curtain, which separated the room into two. The monitor by her bed picked up the hopeful race of her heart.

    When the doctor came in, tired and black-haired, Amy asked her about Abe before she could speak.

    The doctor's face fell, and Amy realized it wasn't just fatigue written across her face; it was remorse. The weight of bad news hung on the shoulders that wore the lab coat.

    "I'm sorry," said the doctor, lowering her clipboard. "But your friend didn't make it."

    The words cut in deep, reopening her wounds and splitting them open a hundred times. There were bandages around her body, but she felt like she was bleeding all over again, aching and gasping on the floor.

    Amy's breath trembled, and she tore her gaze away from the doctor, looking instead at the white sheets draped over her. Her fingers curled in them, shaking.

    "Who's on the other side, then?" she breathed, surprised she could still speak. She tipped her head towards the curtains, and the doctor sent her a sympathetic look.

    "Director Kjellberg," said the doctor. She glanced towards the room door, tapped her clipboard, and turned back to Amy. "You have visitors," she said softly. "Two men, also from the FBI." She managed a half-smile. "I understand you're grieving. If you'd like me to send them away..."

    Amy sniffled, and she wiped at her eyes with her uninjured side. She shook her head.

    "N-no, they can come in," she said. "Please."

    The doctor nodded, and she gently opened the door. "I'll be back for check-up. Please rest, Miss Nelson."

    And when the doctor left and closed the door, a sob left Amy's lips, and she bowed her head, mourning the death of her friend.

———

Before Jim joined the mafia, he wanted to be a reporter.

He had a whole plan laid out with his twin brother, also named Jim, but when money got tight, and their parents whittled away, they didn't have anywhere else to go. It didn't help that his brother was killed, too, shot cleanly like his life meant nothing.

But now, as Jim hunched over Freddie Lounds' phone, typing away an article like his life depended on it, he felt that spark again. The words he laid out weren't his voice, of course—he had to mimic Freddie's outlandish tone—but deep down, he enjoyed it. He liked being able to help Wilford: the only man who ever welcomed him and his brother with open arms. Like they were family.

Wilford and Host sat on either side of him on the dingy bed, staring at the phone as he typed. Host, with his silently judgmental air. Wilford, with his eager gaze.

    Once Jim was done, he sucked in a deep breath, exhaled, and pressed save. He leaned back and scrolled to the top, where the article title boasted in big, red letters:

    'WARFSTACHE challenged by CELINE LAROSE: Mastermind of Crime? Or Widowed Lunatic?'

    And under it, in smaller text, but still large enough to read right away:

    'Updates on the Warfstache case. It's all a lie!'

    Wilford whistled, clearly impressed, and Host narrowed an eye at it, weighing the consequences of this move.

    "It's just how Lounds would write it," said Wilford, sending Jim a look of pride. "But much nicer. You'd be a perfect journalist, Jim."

    Jim smiled at the praise, glancing at Host. He slid the phone from Jim's hands and scrolled through, scrutinizing every word.

    He nodded to himself. "It's good, Jim," he said. "Really good."

    Jim braced himself for the—

    "But," said Host. There it was. "I have a hard time wondering if people will believe this."

    "It's on Tattlecrime.com," slurred Wilford, waving a hand. "Anyone who reads from that glob of a site will believe it."

    "Yes," said Host, "but every article Lounds has written on you went public to other papers." He rose a brow. "This might not be enough."

    Jim stirred in his seat, glancing between them both. "Is it enough for Celine, though?" He swallowed. "Would it draw her out? I mean, that's the point of it—"

    "Wilford," said Host. "You care for Mr. Edwards, right?"

    Wilford's lashes fluttered at that, and his brows furrowed. "Obviously, I just told—"

    "Then we need more," said Host, waving the phone. "Without a doubt, this will get Celine's attention." He glanced at Jim, then at Wilford, his eye intense. "This is a step closer to clearing your name, but it's not enough. Neither is it for Mr. Edwards."

    Wilford huffed. "Well, what do you suppose we do?"

    "Write more," said Host, glancing between Jim and Wil. "We have evidence in Lounds' phone. I looked through. She took photos of nearly everything behind Celine's operation, photos for herself; it was a smart move." He handed the phone to Jim. "And we're going to take advantage of it."

    Wilford's brows carefully rose, and he glanced at the phone. "Host, you genius," he breathed. "And what about messages? We could share screenshots."

    "I haven't checked," said Host, nodding at the phone. "But there's bound to be a lot."

    "Woahhh," said Jim, scrolling through all of Freddie's text messages. "Look at all these people. Frederick Chilton, Will Graham... oh, I actually read about him a few months ago—"

    "Focus, Jim," said Wilford softly.

    "Sorry," said Jim, scrolling. "Ah, right here. Celine Larose..." He tapped on the name, and the page opened with a burst of messages, dating back months, even fanning out to a couple years ago. Jim's brows rose at the sheer quantity of them all.

    "Wow."

    "Wait," said Wilford, catching a word that Jim scrolled past. "Go back."

    Jim went back to the message, dated a month before Freddie's death. Together, the three of them bent over the phone, and as they read, message by message, the victory of Jim's written article faded to nothing.

    'And,' read Freddie's text, her pretentious voice filling the room, 'what's the point of killing Mr. Edwards?' Wilford's eyes ran across the words with fervor. 'You torture him, you kill him, yeah. Then what?'

    Wilford's skin burned when he read Celine's answer.

    'You ask so many questions, Freddie,' came Celine's response, 'that you lose the answers right in front of you.'

    A few replies on Freddie's end, annoyed. And then Celine answered:

    'I'm going to take Wilford's place,' said the message. 'And blame Dark's death—and the repercussions of his death—on him.'

The three of them stilled, staring at the phone.

'It's about time a woman took over the mafia.'

    Wilford had always assumed Celine had an interest for the mafia; had a desire to take someone's place, to make her own rules, but he hadn't believed she'd actually go through with it. And in such a way, too... her plans were already ruthless, but this showed how sinister her intentions truly were. Celine would use death and the collapse of an empire to make her way through the ruins and on top.

    Celine, undermining Wilford effortlessly. Celine, painting a gruesome picture that would make everyone turn on him; destroy everything he'd worked so hard to create, the connections, the lives taken in like family. Everything, ripped away, until she laid Wil bare into a monster of her own creation.

    Celine, mafia boss, kingpin of the crime syndicate.

    She wouldn't just fit into the role. She would destroy it.

    And, just when Wilford thought it couldn't get any worse, his eyes landed on a message further down.

    'Of course,' came Celine's reply, 'it changes with Wilma.'

Wilma. A name he hadn't heard in years.

...

Thank you so much for reading, and have a wonderful day/night!

Love, Vic xoxo