FUN FACT: 90% of the time I spend writing a chapter is used to pick a font on Word.

I haven't been feeling well this whole week so this is probably one of the shorter chapters so I deeply apologyize.

you should follow me on twitter - @tkxo_official

again, sorry for any grammatical errors.

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"If you even dream of beating me, you'd better wake up and apologize." – Muhammad Ali

- - - -

Vincenzo, Vincent, Vinny. He was fifteen times scarier, ten times more intimidating, and five times more attractive in person then on screen. The black bandana that he had tightly wrapped around his head was pushed up on his forehead, keeping his dark brown curls on top his head. His skin was perfectly tanned and lacked any type of age defining wrinkles. His eyes were like two black holes, but the only thing that truthfully defined his age, was the facial hair. He kept it perfectly shaved, not too low, but not high enough that made you question whether or not he owned a razor. His facial hair connected to his sideburns and covered his entire chin, only branching off to cover his upper lip also.

I was expecting to see him wearing an expensive, well-tailored suit with custom made shoes and a thousand dollar watch; but I was wrong. Vincent was dressed as casually as he possible could. He wore a black muscle shirt, similar to what I saw him in the first time we met. A G-Shock watch, nothing too fancy, clung to his wrist and other than the evident shine of the necklace that he had tucked into the collar of his shirt, he wore no other jewelry.

The sound of Vincenzo tapping his long, bony middle finger against the wood desk was almost mesmerizing. It was louder than the chatter that echoed in from the hallway and even louder than the whispering that was going on behind me between Peter and Xavier. It was louder to me because I had zoned in; I was staring and I was staring hard.

It wasn't until Vincent's dark, stormy looking eyes snapped to me that I actually came back from my daydreaming. I let out a breath and took a subtle step back out of surprise. Xavier's palm pressed into my back like a knife, keeping me from leaning back even more. His expression was unreadable as his eyes skimmed over me; once, twice, then three times.

The thin line that his lips had formed broke as he tilted his head and smiled at me. "My mother was African American," He addresses me in a deep, accent laced voice. His Italian accent forces him to emphasize every word, even if he doesn't mean to. "My father is Italian, born, raised, and bred." I gulp as Vincenzo shifts in his seat, forcing it to groan under his weight. "You were staring," He adds, explaining why he had told me about his parents, "I can always tell when people are trying to figure out my ethnicity."

My mouth fell open and I struggled for a response. I was still trying to process the fact that he was actually sitting in front of me, sitting in Peter's chair, in Peter's home.

"Thank you for that wonderful history lesson, Professor," Peter answers for me with a sarcastic response of him own. The owner of the home takes a step forward, clutching his own weapon at his side. Two fairly large men come jogging into the room a second later, AK47's strapped to their backs. They slow to a stop as Vincenzo's attention snaps towards them. "Now," Peter Corinelli claps, "Get out of my seat, or better yet, get out of my house."

"Or what?" Vincenzo challenges. "Are you going to beat me like you beat my son?" The drumming of his fingers on the wood stop. My eyes flutter over his large hand, taking notice of his ring-less ring finger. The relaxed position he had been in was overtaken as he sat straight up and leaned forward. There was no harsh glare or squinting of the eyes for intimidation. Vincenzo kept a straight face with pursed lips and relaxed eyebrows.

Peter's straight, no-nonsense face quickly vanished. With his hands now folded and his gun tucked somewhere on him, he lets out a hearty laugh. "So that's what this is about?" He finally questioned after the laughter died down, "This is about Federico? You're here to avenge his epic beating?"

Vincent didn't look angry or stressed; neutral, if that was possible. He kept his emotions well hidden, not allowing anyone but himself to know what he was thinking. The sound of his fingers drumming against wood resume; that was his response to Peter Corinelli. He often tilted his head at a certain angle, suggesting that he was studying Peter fairly hard.

"Search him," was the command that came from Peter. One of the two heavily armed and large men stepped up to Peter's chair and placed a hand on it, keeping Vincenzo from spinning for entertainment. The chair is whirled around to face the guard and Vincent's eyes roll up, eyeing the man from his seat.

"You heard Peter, stand up," The guard number one bellowed. His voice was deep and sounded like it came straight from his stomach.

Vincenzo looked at the man in such a way, that if I hadn't heard him speak English, I would've assumed he was foreign and knew nothing about the English language. He blinked, inhaled, then pushed himself up out his seat. As Vincent marched away from the chair and positioned himself in the middle of the room, I could see the guard exhaling deeply, probably thankful that Vincenzo hadn't challenged him. Despite the large gap in weight between the two men, the heavy set guard still seemed lenient when it came to Vincent. The guard had strength, but lacked wisdom. Vincenzo had wisdom which made up for his lack in strength if the two ever fought.

You could tell Mr. De Santis had been searched before. Without being told, he spread his legs shoulder length apart and threw his ink covered arms over his head. His muscle shirt rode up a bit as he pressed the palms of his hands to the base of his neck.

The second guard rounded Vincenzo from the back and like his partner, the two started searching him. Even with his arms exposed, they ran their hands down each arm, then they returned to patting his chest and his abdomen. They checked his waist area before continuing their journey south. The only reaction they got from Vincent was a quick jerking of the leg when they patted his crotch area just a little too hard. As they finished patting his legs, they stalled at his ankles and the room fell silent as they registered the obvious.

"He isn't armed, Sir," one of the two guards turned to look over their left shoulder, eyeing their boss. The only answer Peter gave them was by shooting a quizzical look at Vincenzo. With his arms folded and his eyes squinted, he approached just as his two guards stood to their feet.

"You have no weapons on you?" Peter questioned, this time, he directed it specifically to Vincenzo. Mr. De Santis rolled his eyes.

"That depends, what do you consider a weapon?"

Peter took a step back and gave Vincent a look, "A thing," He forms his hand into a gun and pretends to pull the imaginary trigger, "That shoots stuff." Peter aims the makeshift hand-gun square to the middle of Vincenzo's forehead, "Pew, pew."

"I do have a weapon," A slow smile creeps across Vincenzo's face and the two dimples that pierce either corner of his lips become fully evident. He leans forward as Peter stiffens, but his whisper is not so quiet, "But it doesn't shoot bullets."

Having spent as much time with Federico as I had, I caught on to the joke fairly quickly. I could tell Xavier had too; his deep sounding chuckle from behind me didn't go un-noticed.

"Then what does it shoot?"

Vincent looked taken back that the man had yet to catch on. "Ask your mother."

Peter Corinelli blinked and backtracked, clearly not distracted or thrown off by the sound of soft chuckles.

"So this meeting, this is about Federico?"

"More-so about the video you sent me," Vincent replies without hesitation. As if he had it all prepared, Vincenzo takes out his phone and taps the screen just as the room fall eerily silent. My stomach dropped when I heard the sound of a whip cracking against not just something, but someone. You could tell it was a male, despite the cries of pain and begs that slipped through their lips as the merciless beating continued. Peter and Vincenzo held their eye contact throughout the entire video.

It felt like a rock was sitting in my stomach at the realization that the voice crying and begging belonged to Rico. I felt sick, I felt hatred – you name the emotion, it was running through my veins.

"Xavier?" The voice belonged to Peter and I looked up when I heard it. "Xavier?" Peter snapped his fingers together as I took a step forward and turned around, finally noticing Xavier's complexion for myself. Xavier had paled; his skin represented something ghostly white, the color was gone from his cheeks and his lips. His eyes were drawn to the wall, but instead of it appearing as though he was staring at it, it looked like he was staring through it.

I reached out and gently pushed his arm, snapping him out the trance he had fallen in. His eyes fell to me, then to Peter when he heard his name called for a third time. "Y- uh...yes, sorry."

"I hope you enjoyed that trip you just took," Peter tried to hide the angry undertone in his voice. "I was hoping you would come over and reminisce with Vinny and I about the beating we gave his son."

Vincenzo's attention snapped away from me the second he heard one of his many nicknames. His mouth fell open but Xavier beat him to speaking.

"You, Peter. The beating you gave him." It was impossible to miss the glassy look in Xavier's eyes as he took a step towards the door. "I need to..." He points at the door and slips out before anyone can object. My eyebrows connect as I watch Xavier's figure fade the further he walks down the hallway. The sea of armed men retract as he walks by, an 'excuse me' never passing his lips. I did take note of the way his hands ran down his face, a possible sign of exhaustion or frustration.

I zoned back in on the conversation that was still struggling to keep going. "So," I noticed Vincent had already slipped his phone back into his pocket. His hands were clenching and unclenching and he occasionally shook them out at his side. Peter took a step back, "So let me get this straight. You're here to talk about the video I sent you."

"Sí."

"Fine," Peter shrugs and folds his arms over his chest again, "Talk."

Vincenzo De Santis' version of talking was far different than Peter Corinelli's version. It happened in the blink of an eye; quicker than I had ever seen anyone move. One moment Vincent was pressing a palm to his chest, his lips moving briefly, then his index finger shot up towards the sky; the next, there was a crack, blood, then a thump. Peter Corinelli lay on the ground, his face pressing against the cool wood as blood started to pool and slip past his lips. Vincenzo was hovering over him, bent down at the waist for intimidation purposes. The necklace Vincenzo wore dangled between the void that separated the two men.

A breath escaped me when I heard the clicking of guns, watching as Vincent angled his head to the left just enough to see the guards who had their weapons trained on his back. No fear crossed his face, no look of remorse; no nothing. And if his facial expression didn't give anything away, neither did the dark circling of hidden emotion in his eyes. His gaze drifted over to me just as Peter outstretched a palm and shook his head as best he could, forcing his guards to lower their weapons. They did it hesitantly.

Vincent turned back to the man on the ground, watching silently as Peter stretched out his jaw and wiped at the corner of his lips, smearing blood on his fingers while doing so. With just a slight bending of the knees, Vincenzo leaned down just a little more and spoke with such a wicked tone I felt my knees begin to give.

"You signed your death certificate when you fucked with my son, but you sealed your fate when you fucked with me."

With a fistful of Peter's collar, Vincenzo yanked the man up, bringing them face to face. I was pretty sure I imagined the smile that crossed Peter Corinelli's face as Vincent shook him. "If I wasn't convinced that Federico could handle you on his own—" Vincent looked away and laughed. The veins in his neck bulged and his face grew red; laughing was also a way to show anger – noted. "I would torture you just like you did him-" Vincenzo lets Peter go, dropping him back to the ground. "By the time I'm done with you, you'll be attempting to throw dirt on your body as you lay in your awaiting grave."

The two were both breathing heavily; one out of anger, the other out of fear. Vincenzo leaned back for a millisecond and when he came flying forward, a knife was in his right hand. Before anyone could react, it was lodged into the wood floor, millimeters away from Peter's head. It possibly took a few of hairs with it. "You do not mess with this family and you do not mess with me. And for future reference," Vincent emphasized, "It's Vincenzo to you. My parents, my close friends, and my women are the only people that can call me Vinny without receiving a knife to the eye or a gunshot to the neck."

"T-to the neck?" a guard beside me squeaked out.

"Yes, the neck," The sly smile on Vincent's face said everything. This man was Rico Crazy times ten. "I watch them bleed out and force them to say my name correctly. It's very humorous to see them struggle over a simple name." Vincent stands up and blinks. "They usually die before they can finish the –enzo."

We all swallowed hard as the thought and disturbing image came to the forefront of our minds. I was just thankful that this man was on our team.

Vincenzo leans back down and un-anchors the knife from beside Peter's head. Corinelli was certainly flustered; his face was flush and his breathing heavy. His hands were shaking as Vincent stood up and pocketed the knife. I wasn't absolutely sure where he had managed to keep it while getting searched, but that was a question for another day.

His eyes land on me and it seems for the first time that day, he actually sees me. Recognition crosses his face and his eyes drop to the handcuffs that chain my hands together. He glances to his right, where Peter currently tries to bring himself together. Then he glances to his left, where the guards stand, frozen in place. Then he turns back to me. His eyes are suddenly not as dark as they were and his face softens.

I follow his gaze out the door, where men still stand, armed and ready to fire at first command. There was no need for verbal communication. There was no way out, not for me anyways. My eyes land on the large guns that the guards have and as Xavier waltzes back into the room, a thin layer of moisture sticking to his face, I glance at his weapon also. Vincenzo De Santis might be good, but there is no way he's that good. I glance back up and our eyes meet once again. He wanted to help me, he really did, but we both knew that would end in both our deaths.

We stood like that for a moment, trying to communicate with nothing but our eyes. Xavier had walked - unlike the guards who had ran – to Peter. Their attention wasn't on us and this would've been the best opportunity to make a run for it; but we couldn't.

Just as I went to lower my head, Vincent's calm and composed expression took a turn for the worst. "Why the fuck are you staring at me like that?"

I looked to my left, to my right, then over Vincent's shoulder in an attempt to see who the fuck he thought he was talking to. I didn't see anybody.

"I'm sorry," I let out a nervous laugh as my nerves started to cause me to shake. "What?"

"Are you deaf too?" Vincent cocked his head to the right and stared at me with dark eyes. I had no answer for him. He took a small step closer as he shoved a hand into his pocket. I took a step back out of fear.

"I'm not—"

I felt absolutely weak when Vincenzo charged towards me. He didn't run, but his long legs covered about half the room in four steps. I saw Xavier look up just as my world blurred and I was slammed against the wall.

I wasn't sure what it was with walls and I recently but I was tired of meeting them.

My arm was grabbed uncomfortably and before I knew it, I was spun around and my cheek was resting against the wall. Vincent leaned forward and gripped my arm with such force I winced, forcing a tiny, high-pitched sound of un-comfort out my lips. His chest was pressed to my back as I closed my eyes and forced myself to breathe. His lips touched my ear and his opposite hand grabbed my waist, sliding down just till he reached my pants pocket.

And with an accent as thick as his curly hair, he said, "Help's coming."

I squirmed when I felt his hand shove itself in my pocket. He pulled it out within seconds and then he was gone. His presence dismissed. I caught his gaze just before he turned his back on me. I caught the second wink he sent in my direction today.

My breathing was still attempting to return to normal as the guards escorted a laughing Vincent out the door. Peter made sure to emphasize the fact that he wanted Vincent alive. He then ordered his men to "stand down" and in silence, we all watched Vincenzo De Santis stride down the long hallway, guns still aimed his way. Vincent only stopped once; he pretended to lunge at a man on the ground, watching as he scurried backwards, scared. Vincenzo let out a loud laugh as he continued his journey towards the door. The front door was thrown open and I watched his last curly strand disappear as he lumbered down the steps and out of view.

Whatever he put in my pocket was beginning to burn; not literally of course, but more out of curiosity. My eyes fell downcast as I stared at my pocket, curious as to what the hell he had slipped in there. I felt a gentle hand brush against my elbow and I brought my head up so quickly I felt dizzy. Xavier dropped his hand.

"Take her downstairs," was Peter's single command. I felt my heart jump into my throat as Xavier's hand wrapped around my elbow and pulled me out the room. The last I saw of Peter was his guards pulling him to his feet and assisting with his bleeding lip.

I smiled.

Men were scurrying in each direction, putting away weapons in an attempt to return to a normal household. I had slowed my walk, forcing Xavier to practically pull me. He didn't complain, however. We were silent, my handcuffs occasionally clinking together. My skin was growing red from beneath the handcuffs but I didn't complain. The voices and people faded the more hallways we turned down and eventually, the only sound that filled my ears were our footsteps.

The silence was growing uncomfortable. "So," I cleared my throat as we turned down another hall. There was a small, ugly looking door at the end of it. I was hoping to see a big red sign stating: EXIT – but that wasn't the case. "You've worked here long?"

Xavier's stone cold expression broke. His lips formed into a beautiful smile and his grip loosened. It faded as quick as lightening though. By the time we reached the door and he opened it, holding an arm out towards the dark, dingy, hardly-lit, and grimy looking staircase, his smile was gone.

I looked between him and the staircase about a million times. Then I glanced over my shoulder and estimated just how fast I would need to run to beat him. I looked back to Xavier. His build was similar to the men whom I've grown close too. He wasn't super tall, but he looked like he worked out, he was in shape.

I blinked. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

I was anticipating some harsh order, but the corner of Xavier's lips just twitched upwards. "Ladies first."

"I wish chivalry would crawl up your ass and die."

When the door slammed shut after my first step, I nearly screamed, but the feeling of someone near kept me from doing so. Xavier's hand found my elbow once more and I was guided gently down the flight of stairs towards my destination.

The basement was nothing special. The steps were made of poorly poured concrete and the walls were, also, made of the same. In dimly lit corners you could see a bugs scurry at the sound of our presence. A few spider webs were nestled in section of the wall where it met the ceiling. I cringed in disgust as we hit the floor and my body was angled towards another door. It was metal and reminded me much of one that would belong in a maximum security prison; an ugly rusted color with a tiny, rectangular window near the top.

I reminded myself that all of this was for Rosie, it was for Dominic, Rico, but most importantly, it was for Liam.

Did they torture Dom like they did Rico?

Did Dominic have to stay down here?

Or even worse, did Rosalie have to sleep here?

We came to a stop just before the door and I was turned to face Xavier. With an eyebrow raised, he shook his head, "Rosalie stayed upstairs—" Oops, did I say that out loud, "—I would've never let a little girl sleep down here."

Xavier never came off as scary as Peter. Maybe a little creepy when he was checking me out that one night, but I had yet to receive that vibe from him again. I remembered the loving smile Rosie had shot him and the hug they shared; then I remembered him slipping a piece of paper into her pocket.

"What was on the paper?"

Xavier gave me a blank look.

"The paper you gave Rosalie. What was it?"

His eyebrows twitched downwards as he turned and pulled a key out his pocket. Feverishly, I watched him twist the lock in a way and the door groaned and opened. He turned back to me. "We drew a picture together; I can assure you, it would challenge anything Picasso drew." He smiled, as did I.

His actions, however, weren't similar to his words. He spoke kindly to me, but acted differently; as if someone else was forcing him to do this. I was yanked into the dimly lit room and turned around just before the large door closed. Xavier sighed. "I'll be back soon." The door locked shut and Xavier was gone by the time I stood on my tippy-toes and glanced out the foggy two way glass in the door.

"Well this is just peachy." I stepped away from the door and turned around to get accustom to my new home. The walls were an ashy grey and the room was about the size of a typical living room. Just enough to be comfortable, but not enough to go all out. There were no windows and the sound of a faucet dripping filled my ears. I let out a deep sigh. "This feels awfully familiar."

My eyes scanned the rest of the room, only stopping when my attention fell to another figure pressed against the wall. They were small and appeared short from their seated position. The long, silky black hair that covered the majority of their facial features indicated to me that it was a woman. Her knees were pulled to her chest and her arms wrapped around them, tucking them to her chest. Her shoulders shook but she didn't look up at me until I came close.

When she lifted her head, I smiled. Her hair was long and flowing, knotted just a bit but I understood due to the circumstances we found ourselves in. Her nose was a perfect fit for her face; neither too sharp or dull. Her eyes were nice and round, her eyelashes long, and her lips plump, pink, and cracked. Dried blood caked her forehead and her ruined mascara coated the bottom of her eyes, a line smeared where she had wiped her tears. She wore a dress; one that was now covered in dirt and blood. One of her heels was broken, along with a few of her manicured finger nails. She was gorgeous and her face kept a certain youth to her appearance, despite the fact that she was by far, older than me.

I dropped down to the floor which was much easier said than done. With hardly any hand support, I might as well have fainted and fallen backwards – it would've been way easier. Making myself as comfortable as possible, I pushed my back against the wall and sighed. I inched closer to her, our arms now brushing together and I could've sworn I saw a smile cross her face. No words needed to be shared, yet, almost instantly, we both felt better.

I wasn't alone in this.

I felt the pressure of her head as she leaned against my shoulder, her body far more slouched down the wall than mine. She let out a breath and spoke first, her voice soft, and I swear to you I heard a slight hint of an accent. "Nobody knows I'm here," Her voice cracked almost immediately, but I wasn't sure whether that was from emotion or a lack of fluids.

"Nobody?" I whispered back. My own situation was suddenly thrown into perspective. I had people that cared and that I knew would come back; Liam might not, but Federico would. He said so and I believed him. I let out a shaky breath, "What about your family?"

She twisted her left hand just the slightest, but it brought a gorgeous black diamond ring into my line of sight. I was expecting to see it covered in dirt, grime, and blood, but it wasn't. She had kept the ring in perfect, mint condition. The woman angled her hand up just a bit, knowing we were both silently admiring it. The ring, however, was one I had never seen before and it was clearly and obviously custom made. The diamond itself was black and it shimmered beautifully even without light. The band that it connected to was lined with smaller black diamonds, but the band itself was a crimson red and a shade of yellow that mixed and matched the black and red to absolute perfection.

"I have an ex-husband. We talk occasionally, but not enough to make my disappearance suspicious." She holds her breath for just a second, as if she's hesitating on whether to add the last tid-bit of information, "I have a son, but we don't talk."

"Why not?"

There was a lengthy pause between my question and her response. In a way, I thought she hadn't heard me, but I knew she had.

The lady finally came back with, "What's your name?" Her switching of topics wasn't exactly the smoothest transitions I had ever seen, but I rolled with it.

"Faith, and yours?"

"I go by my middle name now; Zara." She pauses, "Why are you here?"

"Oh," I let out a laugh, "That's a good question. You see, Zara, it all started when I ran up the steps in my home instead of out the door..."

Fifteen minutes later and we were just getting started. Zara, as she introduced herself to me as, wasn't as quiet as I had first anticipated her to be. After gaining some strength and resting on my shoulder, she stood up and began to pace; her arms were folded behind her back and her head was bowed, her ears keened in on every single word I said.

She laughed a lot, especially when I mentioned Michael and William. She fell silent when I began to bring up Dominic, but when I mentioned Fantasma, she stopped dead in her tracks.

"Fantasma is a myth," She smiles oddly at me, "A bedtime story to scare little children at night. He's not real." Zara pauses when she sees my eyebrow arch, "Just...rumors I hear on the street."

"No," I speak slowly, "I'm pretty sure he's real." My mind wanders to the feel of Federico's breath against my lips, his hearty laugh and his boyish grin. A rush of heat flushes to the area of my waist where he had grabbed and squeezed the night before. The last, fading picture of him smiling softly and the look that circled around his gorgeous hazel eyes pierced the back of my mind before my memory of Rico went blank. I blink and look back up, realizing a smile was now on my face. "Federico De Santis is definitely real."

She didn't seem to believe me, but she accepted what I said with a shrug. I was smiling even wider when I realized there was only other one person I hadn't yet to bring up. "Then there's Liam..." By this time, Zara had walked herself out. She dropped down to the ground opposite me and listened.

When it came to Liam, however, Zara had about a million questions. "Is he sweet?", "Is he tall?", "Is he a gentleman?"

I answered her questions with ease. She nodded pleased and I continued. My voice faded and my thoughts began to obviously wander. I didn't know where to start with Liam, so I started with the obvious. "He's gorgeous, and nice in his own way, he's funny, hilarious often-times. He's a good leader..." All the good qualities of Liam Luciano came spewing out, but then so did the bad, "But he often let's his emotions get the best of him. His anger is horrible and I think he fears confrontation sometimes. But he's a good leader," I add once again with the nod of my head, "And an amazing brother to Rosalie."

The woman flips her long strands of black hair over her shoulder and tilts her head to the right. She uses her hands for support and she eyes me with curiosity. You could practically see her mind working through her eyes, "You speak of him highly."

"I do, but don't forget, he's also a pain in the ass."

She smiles, truly smiles. It was radiant and lit up the room, momentarily making us forget that we were prisoners in this hell.

"—a pain in the ass with a gorgeous name," I add quickly. That earns me a laugh from the woman.

"I'm serious!" I smile, "Liam Elijah Luciano. Say it with me. You can't tell me that isn't a sexy name." We both chuckle softly, "I would love to meet the woman that gave it to him, just to thank her."

"Is that your ultimate goal in life?"

"Other than getting out of here and making sure Peter Corinelli is dead?" I ponder my own question, "Yes."

Her head rolls the other direction, a soft smile still on her face. She looked familiar, like I had passed her on the street before. "You speak of this...Liam...like you care about him a lot."

"I do," My head drops to my hands, where I slowly fiddle my thumbs in a bored manner. Or maybe it was just a maneuver to keep myself from staring the woman in the eyes, "I care about him a lot." I let out a breath, "It wasn't always like that though. I hated him, he was annoying and controlling, quite physical too." She lifts an eyebrow and I correct myself, "Not sexually! More like—" I swing a loose punch, "—that type of physical."

I close my eyes and my smile grows, "He apologized though but he's still occasionally annoying, but other than that, he's..." My words drift.

"You love him." She said it in such a breathless tone that my eyes snapped up and I looked at her like she was crazy.

"You're insane, no I don't."

Zara's smile grew, "Sweetheart, I've been in a lot of relationships in my day and I can assure you, the way you talk about him. It's—"

"Admiration," I emphasize with a smile, "That's all. Just admiration."

The look she gave me next made my smile falter and my mind to wander. There was a feeling I got that I didn't with anybody else when I was with Liam. It was almost unexplainable; it was like a mixture of butterflies, plus the fluttering feeling of my heart. He is the last person I think about at night and the first person that comes to my mind in the morning; it had just started, my mind occasionally drifting at the thought of him when I woke up, but the thoughts and ideas had become much more frequent in recent days. It wasn't until then that I realized maybe I was trying to convince myself that it was only admiration, rather than trying to convince Zara.

"Faith, we have a lot of things in common." I glance back up at the older woman. She let out a soft smile. "Other than being beautiful, of course," She whisks her hair over her other shoulder in emphasis, causing me to laugh. Her smile slowly fades and her attention is drawn to the dazzling ring that decorates her finger. She slides the ring off her finger, rotates it in her petite hands, before resting it down on the concrete that lies between us.

Her eyes plead for me to pick it up and I do. I held it like you would hold glass; gently. I was scared that if it dropped, it would shatter the black diamond that was nestled perfectly in place. My thumb brushes along the smaller diamonds, all until small, cursive lettering draws my attention to the inside of the ring. I bring it closer, my eyes squinting closed as I try to ready the word.

"The red—" The pointing of Zara's finger forces me to tear my eyes away from the cursive lettering, focusing on the bold of the red color, "It can mean a lot of things, but I like saying that it's a will to survive—" She points to the yellow, "—yellow can mean a lot of things too. But It mostly means happiness, hopefulness." She stops.

"And the black diamond?" I rotate the ring again as she begins to explain.

"Black is the color of the hidden, something secretive, unknown, and mysterious."

I nod, fascinated as I inspected the ring once more. My pinkie brushes against the engraved word on the inside of the ring. I had to strain my eyes to see it, but when I did, I let out a breath that sounded much like I had been sucker punched.

"Something tells me we're here for the same reason," Zara whispers.

My eyes drop back down the ring and I let out another breath, this time, the word engraved follows.

"Luciano."

- - - -

"You have Liam Luciano's mother downstairs?" I whispered it in a harsh, low tone as Xavier led me up the stairs. I shook my wrists out gently, rubbing my hands over them tenderly in hopes of easing the pain. The handcuffs had rubbed them raw.

Xavier stayed silent, what else was new. He marched up the steps with purpose and barged through the door at the top. He gave me just enough time to scurry through the doorway before slamming it with meaning and vigor. I jumped and proceeded to follow him down the silent hallway. My mind was working as fast as it could.

I let out a sigh and stopped walking. "Xavier."

He didn't stop walking. A long, black Nike designed key chain that was designated to hang around his neck, dangled from his jean pocket. He looked like a completely different person in casual wear, far different from the controlling person he appeared to be when wearing a suit. He took about five more steps before stopping, throwing his head back, and spinning on his heels to look back at me. The wedding ring that usually dangled around his neck, was now decorating his ring finger.

"That is indeed my name, Miss—" His eyebrows crease together as his eyes drop from my head to my freed hands. "How the hell did you get those handcuffs off?"

I wave my hands in front my face teasingly, before dropping them and smiling. Xavier storms back over to me, but he wasn't angry. The corner of his lips were begging to pull upwards in a smile. My mind replays the incident; when I hit the wall, when Vincenzo pressed himself against me and whispered in my ear, when his hand slipped inside my pocket and as quickly as he had come, he was gone.

It had been a key.

"Vincenzo?" Xavier deadpans as he scrutinizes my face. The smile on my face was all the answer he needed, "Sometimes I tell m—" We begin to walk again, me struggling to keep up with Xavier's pace, "—I tell Peter occasionally that Vincenzo De Santis is not one to mess with, but..." Xavier holds a door open for me, forcing me to walk beneath his arm to get by.

"He doesn't listen?"

"Never."

The house was far more silent than earlier. We found ourselves in a perfectly sized kitchen with all the needed utilities. A small table that seated four was pushed to the corner. The flooring beneath me was black tile, while the walls were tan. I shot a glance at a clock that sat over the stove.

Nine-Fifteen p.m.

"What am I doing here?"

"Well the W-O-T-S is that you gave yourself up for Rosie and Santiago," Xavier responds quickly. I study him as he pulls a wooden chair out from beneath the table and drops it in, hard. He stretches his legs out, pulls his phone out his pocket, and glances up at me with a forced smile, curious as to why I was still staring at him.

"The what?" I blink.

"W-O-T...oh," He returns his attention to his phone, "The word on the street."

"I did, but that wasn't my—"

"Question?" Xavier drags his eyes up from his phone again and sighs. He stiffens, straightens, and puts his phone down face first on the table. After running his hand through his hair, he leans forward, eyeing me strangely. I nod as he finishes my sentence for me, but before I can speak up again, he asks a question of his own. "I had one of those too," Brushing his thumb over the bridge of his nose, he angles his head as he looks back to me, "Why did you do it?"

Why did you do it, Faith?

I answer slowly, as if even I'm not sure of the words that are coming out my mouth. "I care about them; I care about Rosie, Dominic, I care about Federico and obviously, I care about Liam." Xavier blinks, forcing me to add, "Even if he's a pain in my ass."

"Care?" Xavier emphasizes the word with a smile, "Ms. Cra—"

"—Faith," I correct.

"—Faith, you don't sacrifice your life for someone you care about."

"Yeah, you can."

He lifts a bushy eyebrow, "I care about Peter, but you don't see me preparing to jump in front a bullet for him."

My eyebrows connect, "You wouldn't protect your boss?"

For the first time, Xavier actually tears his attention away from me and focuses on something else inside the room. His lips part and behind his eyes, you can see his mind working, but no words are said. At one second it appeared that he was about to speak, but instead, he draws his bottom lip into his mouth and shakes his head. The sound of a chair squeaking against tile is heard and Xavier suddenly stands.

"Not when I have a daughter to live for," He finally adds. He stalks past me, leaving me standing in the middle of the large kitchen. But before he storms out, leaving me utterly alone, he stops and waves at me, "Follow."

So I do.

The amount of men that fluttered in and out of doors had significantly decreased in a matter of hours. Televisions were off, lights were dim, and halls were silent. There was no unnecessary chatter, laughter, smell of beer, or smoke. I saw two men, both were dressed in dark clothes, guns resting harmlessly on their hips. They blinked as we walked by, but said nothing.

"There's nobody here," I stated this mostly to myself, but Xavier heard.

"Peter doesn't like keeping the men in the same house as us," He begins to explain in a low voice, "They all live in a house about a mile down the road from here; it keeps this place feeling homey and quiet." I nod, taking in all the information, "The men usually leave around eight, they don't come back till nine the next morning; sometimes a tad earlier, sometimes later – nothing is too strict around here."

I was on to something.

I decided to pry just a little bit more, "So, at night, once the sun is down, how many people do you think are in the house?"

Xavier wasn't suspicious of my questions. Thinking out loud, I watched him count Peter Corinelli, himself, and about eleven guards. "So, in total?" He finally turns back to me with a shrug, "Thirteen, including the two Rottweilers we have outside for protection and our amazing security system."

My heart was beginning to race, but for a good reason. There was no doubt in my mind that Liam – if he came – and his group of merry men couldn't take out thirteen people, including a couple vicious dogs. I smiled, now all they had to do was try and get me and Zara out of here.

We turned down another path as Xavier glances behind me. My happiness was dismissed the second he finished talking, "But that doesn't include the back-up we have waiting just a mile down the road. When our security system goes off, they're alerted and they come running in."

I groaned, "Guns blazing?"

"Guns blazing."

Well God-Fucking-Dammit.

My plan sunk faster than the Titanic.

Our conversation lulled as Xavier slowly began to ease himself into tour-guide mode. He showed off a few offices and large rooms that seemed like an absolute waste of space. His company, however, was entertaining. He had me laughing occasionally, a smile on my face as if I wanted to be here, not forced. By the time we exited the last room on the first floor and walked back into the kitchen, my face was red from laughter.

We found ourselves nibbling on cinnamon flavored pop-tarts as a snack. He eyes the sweet treat curiously before shoving half of it in his mouth and smiling. "Jesus," His mouth is full, forcing it to sound like 'Jesmmmfh'. "No wonder my daughter loves these things," His feet dangle as he hops on top the counter and opens another pack.

"What's she like?"

His eyes practically light up at my question and the pace that he inhales the pop-tarts at, slows. Chewing thoughtfully, he rests it down and pats the crumbs off his hands, "She just like her mother; so beautiful," He nods, "Beautiful with an attitude."

"How old?" I sit down on a chair and turn to him.

"Six. She's going to be seven in August." He thinks for a moment, "Like your friend, like Rosie."

I let out a laugh at the thought of the little girl, "Rosalie is..."

"She's an absolute sweetheart," Xavier finishes my thought for me as he hops off the counter. "You ready to go upstairs?"

"You mean downstairs?"

"No, I mean upstairs," He corrects me again and as if he's reading my mind, he adds, "You aren't staying downstairs. Peter told me that you were in my care for the time being, so you sleep upstairs."

As I was led out the kitchen and up the steps, the only thing I could think about was Zara, Mrs. Ex-Luciano. She was probably cold, dirty, hungry, and uncomfortable. "What about Zara?" I question as we head up the stairs.

"What about her?"

Well that was an excellent question. I trailed behind him slowly as we walked up the steps. They were marble and the railing was fancy and engraved with gorgeous swirls and twists of gold. My hand dragged along it until we reached the open second floor. It seemed to continue for as far as the eye could see; immediately to my right was a small open room with a television, sofa, and a coffee machine. To the left was a large hallway with rooms; we headed down there before I could admire the rest of the second floor.

I wet my lips as he pushes one door open and steps it. It was clearly his room. My eyes stayed locked on Xavier as he stepped further into his room, leaving me standing beneath the entrance-way. His walls were tan, his floors the same color, but his room didn't lack character. Pictures lined the walls with perfect placement.

A large, huge light brown teddy bear was pushed in a corner. I let out a laugh as I analyzed that corner just a bit more. A white tea-party set was lined up perfectly against that wall, making it look like the teddy was enjoying a little tea.

His gaze followed mine and his voice soon floated gently through the room, "See, that needs an explanation—"

"Does it?" I tease.

He lets out a laugh, "My daughter sometimes comes over and we have father-daughter time," Xavier pauses, "Not 'daddy-daughter' time, because in this generation, that sounds like the title of a porno."

That forces a closed smile as I watch Xavier. He stands to his feet and waltzes over to his daughter's toys. He gently picks the bear upright so that he isn't leaning over and he fixes one of the tea-cups that had fallen off the table. It astonished me that such a man as Peter Corinelli, a man that could beat another human being, a man that could kill a little girl's mother, would have a sidekick like Xavier.

"Why the hell are you working with him?" I take a step into the room and force my arms to fold, my expression was surely hard to read. Xavier stands and turns to me, reacting as if he hadn't heard or understood my question. "Were you there?" I redirect my question and turn away from him, my attention now drawn to the various amount of photos that line his walls. "Did you see them hurt Federico?"

If Xavier responded immediately, I didn't hear it. I was drawn closer to the wall as I examined the three closest photographs. One of the prettiest women I had ever seen was posing with Xavier. The two were in casual wear, their bare feet nestled in golden yellow sand. The day looked beautiful, as did they. Xavier looked a few years younger, his face bare from any facial hair and his shoulders not as broad. The woman beside him had one of her arms slung around his neck, another pressing against his abdomen. Her hair was black and cascaded down her back in waves. Her skin was a gorgeous complexion that was in between a light brown and caramel color. Her nose was slim, her lips plump.

The next photo was the two of them in a similar setting; the beach. The sand this time was a little darker. Xavier's smile had lowered and he pulled off a serious expression for the camera. The woman's expression, however, hadn't changed from the first photo. Her bright smile was still radiant, lighting up the photo even more. But what was even more evident in this photo was her stomach; taking a wild shot in the dark, I would say she was easily eight months pregnant. With one hand on her stomach and another around her man, the picture had been wonderfully photographed.

"I didn't see them hurt him, no," Xavier's voice is finally found from behind me. It's soft, gentle, and reassuring. I believe him without hesitation and before I can analyze the third photo, I turn around. He's sitting on the very edge of the bed, his feet planted to the floor. His hands are resting in his lap, his eyes on me.

"You weren't there?"

His reply came immediately, "I was there."

I looked at him, confused, forcing him to continue.

"I was there," In frustration, he runs a hand from the back of his head to the front, forcing his hair to fall a bit over his forehead. He let out a sigh and fell back on his bed, his hands up at his face, "I was there, but I wasn't in the room." Then in a muffled, low tone, he added, "I couldn't watch that."

I blinked at that. "But—"

"You're in the mafia?" Xavier sat up as he mimicked the question I was most likely about to ask. "Is that what you were going to say?" His eyebrows connected together in annoyance and slight anger and an unfriendly edge pierced his words. "So because I'm in the mafia I have to watch someone get the life beat out of them?"

I took a step back and shook my head, "That isn't what—"

"So because I'm in the mafia I can't help an innocent seven year old girl who hasn't done shit to me?" He stands at that, "I've heard all of that bullshit already, Faith. I've been hearing it since Rosalie was thrown into this house and I've heard it since Peter whipped the shit out of your friend."

"No," I wasn't proud at how quiet my voice sounded. I was just a bit weary; I didn't know Xavier like I knew Liam and I wasn't about to raise my voice any higher. "That isn't what I meant, I'm just... I'm thankful—" You could see the anger diminish from his eyes, "I'm thankful that you took care of Rosie. That was sweet of you."

He tries to smile.

"And as for Rico, I guess I'm glad you weren't apart of that, but you could've helped him. You could've stopped Peter from—"

"No I couldn't."

"Yes, you—"

"No, I could not," He turns around at that and sighs, his shoulder slumping just the slightest. My eyes fell to the ground, the horrible memory of hearing Rico's screams permanently etched into the back of my mind.

Movement caught my eye and when I looked up, Xavier had hooked his fingers around the collar of his shirt and slowly pulled it up. His lower back was exposed, then his mid, and finally his head was through the hole. With his arms still entangled in the inside-out shirt, his muscles clench and my eyes fall to his back, where a familiar, yet saddening sight greets me.

It takes exactly two steps to be within arm's reach of Xavier. With my arm outstretched, I hesitate when it comes to touching his back. But when I do, he immediately tenses beneath my touch. My fingers outline just one of the many scars that decorate his back; they look old, faded, having been caused many years ago.

"I had to walk out of there," Xavier turns his head to the left, glancing at me out the corner of his eye. "I couldn't watch it."

I find the beginning of another scar and slowly trace it, "Who?"

"Peter," Xavier turns away from me and drops his head.

"And why?"

"He hates me."

"But why?"

Xavier steps away and throws his arms over his head, slithering his head through his shirt and fitting back into it perfectly. He turns around.

"Because I'm his son."

- - - -

a/n: hehehehehehehehehehehe.

Comments on the chapter?

Yes, Liam's mother is B A C K. How do you think that reunion will blow over? If it does anyways...

Just a heads up, the next chapter will be in Liam's POV.