xxix | end of an era
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

D I A V O L O 

present day –

His hair has grown.  The only indication that time is marching on.  Scolding hot water rushes through every strand, drawing his short hair just half an inch down his forehead.  It threatens to burn his scalp and ignite the pain of every scar that lines his back. But all Gabe can feel is the cold tile that his fingertips press against.

His eyelids flutter closed as water ripples through his hair and rushes down his face.  He flexes his left hand, the same one Veleno drove a knife through, staking the Russian assassin to the floor. Gabriel will never regain full function or feeling.

His eyes open at the thought.  Federico De Santis is one of this decade's best assassins, followed closely by Veleno.  Both offering Diavolo something he rarely sees: a challenge.  But neither intrigued him as much as the boy.  Gravity should not obey someone like it does that kid.

Crixus didn't just intrigue the assassin, but the commander of Valentin's army as well. Kirill. "Who the fuck did this?" He had said, inspecting Gabriel's back.

"The future."

Gabriel steps out the shower and towels off quickly before pulling on a pair of shorts.  It's pitiful to say, but his reflection offers him a sensation he doesn't often feel.  Fright would be an excessive term to use to describe it, but Gabriel's heartbeat hits another gear at the odd movement out the corner of his eye.  His reflection in the mirror. 

He doesn't see himself often and typically when given the chance, he doesn't take it. He never saw his reflection until he was twelve.  Gabriel and self-esteem were never given a chance, because by the time he saw himself, he already believed what Valentin and every other soldier had told him.  He was nothing.  And that is all he would ever be.

As a boy, he clung to the handle of the grimy mirror, blood trickling down his arms in thanks to the cuts inflicted to his hands.  A young Kirill stood above him, glancing away nervously in hopes that nobody had seen him sneak Gabriel the small mirror.  The boy had been asking to see himself for as long as the young soldier could remember. 

He clings now to the edge of the sink, attention just as focused on his reflection now as it was all those years ago.  His hair was long back then.  His loose curls tumbling over his forehead and obscuring his vision with ease.  His hair hasn't been that long since.

As a boy, he was focused on his appearance.  But tonight, he's busy trying to find the same look that he sees in others in himself.  That look.  The one that separates the dead from the living.  The one that is in the eyes of everybody that he passes.  The one that he can never find in the dead.  The same one he can't find in himself.

"You're nothing," Gabriel whispers, just like he did all those years ago.  Repeating the mantra that was repeated to him on what felt like a daily basis.  "You are nothing and that is all you will ever be."

And as Kirill did back then, he listens now.  The same scene that repeats in the assassin's mind repeats for the soldier as he leans against the doorframe, arms folded across one another, silent.

But it was the start of something.  To Kirill it was a friendship, a bond, a trust.  It was safety to Gabriel.  Kirill was the one and only solider who never laid a hand on him.  The only solider that loosened his chains and treated him like he was normal.  The only solider that would march down to the basement during the night and unlock his door and although Gabriel never left the confines of his cage, they would sit there, and they would talk. Like he was normal.  Like he was not nothing.

Gabriel was wearisome of Kirill in the beginning, with every right to be.  It took months for his one-word answers to turn to two, his two to turn to three, before he was mumbling short sentences.  And in all the years of their friendship, Kirill has yet to get a full-fledged rant out the assassin's mouth.  Just another one of the many lessons Gabriel has taught him. The smartest person in the room is often the quietest one.

The soldier pushes himself away from the doorframe and enters the warm bathroom, arms still crossed.  Anyone else would be worried of the evident signs in Gabriel's discomfort.  The tightening of his shoulders.  The whitening of his knuckles as his grip on the marble edge tightens.  The way his brown eyes follow Kirill as he walks around him.  But none of these signs are thee sign.

The sign of Diavolo's emergence is the tremor.  It's the slightest shaking of his hands and only when it's bad does it sometimes travel up his arms.  It's almost impossible to spot when he's dressed in black, but it's the most dangerous sign of all.  A simple tremor, or as Kirill likes to call it, the wakening of a demon.

"You're my friend," Kirill leans his back against the bathroom counter, his shoulder brushing with Gabriel's.  The assassin's head doesn't move.  His eyes do.  They hold each other's attention.  "You're not nothing.  You're something, because I consider you my friend."

"Friend." Gabriel repeats quietly.  His smile is soft.  It always has been.  No teeth or wide grin that threatens to pull his lips apart and crinkle the corner of his eyes.  Nothing ever reaches his eyes.  "Friend."

There are days when Gabriel is more talkative to Kirill than most. Today has been one of his less talkative days.   Gabriel leans against the counter more, eyes still searching the mirror.  "Do friends watch movies?"

Kirill spins around, facing the same direction as his friend.  "Yes, friend's watch movies, why?"

Gabriel gets Kirill's attention in the mirror.  "Can we watch a movie?"

Kirill smiles softly, the hesitation in the assassin's voice making him happier than it should.  Gabriel has always been a creature of habit.  They put the chains on him and took them off at the exact same time every single day. The shift change of the guards in front of his cage, even if a tenth of a second too late, causing anxiety.  The assassin isn't bound to the basement anymore and is often given the choice to sleep in a room, like any normal person would.  But he almost always chooses not to, and as he always did, retreats to the basement.  A creature of habit.

Gabriel clears his throat, drawing the solider back to the present.  "I think..." The assassin takes a step back, his expression shifting to one of confusion.  "I think watching a movie might make me..."

"Happy?" Kirill pitches in.

Gabe's faint smile is back. He nods as if he's in agreement.  "Friend."

Kirill fights back a laugh at the bewilderment of the assassin.  He has never been one of many words, yet Kirill has always been able to understand, always been able to decipher.  He understands Gabriel more than Gabriel understands himself.  It's always been like that, and it might always be.  His laugh fades at the thought.

The solider shakes his head, "G, no, friend and happy are two different things."

There is a thin line between Diavolo and Gabriel, one that should not be confused.  Diavolo's intelligence is lethal, and his will is unmatched.  The smartest in the room, without a doubt.  His ability to remain in control and the realism of his acting—from facial expressions, to tears, to pulling the sympathy out of even the coldest of individuals should be awarded.  The line blurs. Kirill taught Gabriel how to properly use silverware two weeks ago, and now he stands here, fighting to understand the difference between happiness and a friend.

Kirill interrupts Gabriel's stumbling thought process.  "Valentin wants to speak with us, but after that, we can watch any movie you want.  What did you have in mind?"

Gabriel is mid-shrug.  He stops.  "Cinderella."

This is the second laugh Kirill has tried to hold back.  "You want to watch a Disney movie?"  Gabriel's serious expression doesn't fade.  Not even the hint of a smile.  Kirill frowns.  "Disney has some great movies, I just don't feel like they're entirely your speed—"

"Cinderella." Gabriel simply repeats.  "For Rico."

Kirill has been a part of hundreds of discussions about Diavolo, most of them taking place over the dinner table with other Rostov soldiers.  They spoke of his execution the day the assassin hit a zone none of them had ever seen, killing over thirty-five of Valentin's men before he could be chained.  They laughed in reflection of the day they all managed to wrap a noose around the assassin's neck, hang him from the ceiling, and kick the chair out from under him and watch.  But the largest discussion of them all always revolved around his humanity, or his lack thereof.

It's moments like this, those only Kirill has experienced, that reassures him that Valentin's torture didn't take it all. 

"For Rico," the commander repeats with a smile.  "We can watch Cinderella then, but it sounds like I have some friendship competition."

Gabriel's chuckle is low.  "No competition."

The assassin turns to walk out the room.  He hesitates underneath the doorway, his head tilting more to one side than the other.  His eyebrows press together at the feeling that dances across his skin and he turns around.  He can't fully process the troublesome look on Kirill's face, but it's one he's seen others make before.  A look he can't quite fake, no matter how many times he tries in the mirror. 

"What's wrong?"

Kirill looks up.  "How do you do it?"  From the moment Valentin snatched the baby from his mother's lifeless arms, Gabriel has been the canvas of all the evil in the world.  Every knife taken to his back, like a brush dipped in paint.  Kirill's been around long enough to watch the stitches disappear and the assassin's scar count grow.  He was the only solider to remain behind, watching the assassin's back as he lied there, recovering from another gunshot, another stab wound.  And he would ask the same question, how do you do it, but Gabriel would never respond.

Gabriel takes another step into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.  The look on Kirill's face makes him uncomfortable.  He doesn't know what he needs to say, or what his friend wants to hear.  He's never been good at that.

Kirill leans against the counter once more.  "How do you do it? How do you take all this shit from Valentin's soldiers knowing damn well you could kill them all?"

Gabriel shifts in his stance and mutters, "Not them all."

Kirill shoots him a knowing look.  "Don't play with me.  You could kill them all."

"Not you," Gabriel adds.  He rubs at his wrist, fighting a shy smile.  "I wouldn't hurt my friend."

He's trying to be funny, but Kirill isn't laughing or smiling.  The commander lowers his voice.  "I know it's for the mission, but how are you not tired? This man stripped you from your family and ruined you.  He wasted your life. He took away years you could've had with your father.  He tortured you and beat you and still doesn't respect you the way you deserve, how are you not tired?"

"Kirill." The soldier can do nothing but look up at the sound of his name.  The assassin takes another step into the room and lowers his voice even more.  Hiding the Russian accent is easy with the amount of practice Gabriel has had working in the field, but only within the confines of the Rostov mansion's does it make a reappearance.  It does tonight.  "Sometimes you have to lose the little battles to win the war."

Kirill hesitates to answer, and Gabriel knows why.  The commander always thinks too much.  The assassin finishes with, "And when I'm done with him, Valentin will be nothing but a day in February."

Kirill's laugh fills the bathroom as Gabriel's lips curl upward.  His chest shakes as he laughs quietly.  Kirill always laughs louder and longer than him, especially when he tries to be funny.  It makes him happy, maybe?

Gabriel opens the bathroom door as Kirill shoves him back into the bedroom.  The solider has to reach to grab at Gabriel's head, shaking him playfully.  "I'll be outside.  Get dressed so we can go talk to Valentine and start our movie."

Diavolo breezes out the room not a moment later.  He doesn't remember when the intricate material became a thing.  It just always was.  The sheer, black material always paired with a sleeveless muscle shirt and depending on the situation, a bullet proof vest.  It used to bother him—the way the material so easily flowed with the wind and danced with his every move.  It used to get in his way and disrupt his fighting, but just like his anger and his demon, he learned to control it.

Kirill marches down the hallway with Diavolo at his side, the two quiet.  No unnecessary chatter or conversation.  A strictly professional relationship.  The two hit a juncture in the hallway and glance at each other.  No words need to be shared as Diavolo falls a few steps behind the commander.  Side-by-side means equality.  Diavolo can never be equal. 

I'm sorry, is the look that Kirill offers him.

The material the assassin operates behind doesn't offer him the opportunity to respond.  The commander would never be able to read his lips or interpret his expression.  A low hum rising from the base of his throat is enough. Not much longer.  It isn't until they reach the final stretch, the long hallway leading towards the room Valentin chose as his office, that Kirill senses something.  The commander turns around to find Diavolo's footsteps having slowed.  The assassin is troubled.

It's Kirill's turn to ask, "What's wrong?"

He pauses just long enough for Diavolo to catch up to him.  The assassin has his head tilted to the side, eyes surely locked on the office door, not too far ahead.  There's a hesitant pause, before Diavolo reaches toward the back of his head, slowly revealing his face to Kirill.  Gabriel mimics a look of concern, then speaks slowly, "He knows."

The tension in the hallway forces a faint laugh out of Kirill.  "Knows what?"

The first thing Gabriel said came out as a statement, but the next follows in question.  "What if he knows we saved Federico?"

It's a possibility that has kept Kirill up at night since it happened, all those months ago.  A possibility that has been in the back of the commanders mind every time he is in a room with Valentin, especially alone.  It took a while for the solider to understand that he was not afraid of Valentin finding out, but that he was afraid of what his boss would do if he did.

"Gabe."

"What if he hurts you?"  Kirill pauses at the intensity in Gabriel's voice.  An intensity he hasn't heard before.

"I'm more afraid of what he would do to you," is Kirill's rebuttal.

"Us," Gabriel states harshly. The coldness of his tone and the darkening of his brown eyes would've sent Kirill into the wall if he wasn't used to it.  The thin line separating Gabriel and Diavolo, good and evil, heaven and hell, momentarily blurs.  "What he would do to us," Diavolo finishes.

"And if he does know that we saved your friend..." Kirill tilts his head in correction, "Your adopted brother..." The soldier shrugs.  He casts glances to his left and right, making sure they were still alone.  He meets his friend's eyes.  "And if he does...hurt...me, just know I would do it again if it meant you got the answers you always been wanting.  I heard you tell Federico that you've died every single day of your life, at least I'll only have to die once."

The assassin can't find the word he wants to say.  Something nice.  Thank you, is on the tip of his tongue, but he can't bring it to himself to say it.  The commander notices and smiles.  "You can thank me later, now get cute, we have a meeting."

Get cute.  Gabriel chuckles as he pulls the hood over his head and follows the commander to Valentin's door.  The bad feeling in the assassin's gut has never failed him.  It's arguably what has kept him alive this long—that and the fact his purpose in life isn't complete. 

Valentin Rostov is standing at the window, a glass of water in his hands.  His office has minimalistic decoration, mainly dark wood. The office at his estate in Russia is three times the size of this and he wants nothing more than to return to that, but until the Italian's have suffered enough, he has no plans of returning home.

"Kirill," He greets.  "Shut the door."  Valentin doesn't offer a look over his shoulder, let alone acknowledge Diavolo's presence.  No-one ever does.  Unless they need him or he's angry.

Valentin doesn't turn around until he hears the click of the door.  He doesn't make a move until his commander has reached Diavolo's side again, then he starts walking, slowly.  He sets his glass of water down on the table and turns to the two men, chuckling quietly to himself.  They've always tried to hide their friendship, but Valentin has known about it from the very beginning. 

He's known about the food Kirill would sneak the assassin and the nights the commander would relieve the other soldiers of their nightshift, guarding Diavolo's cell himself.  He's come to see the favoritism the assassin would show Kirill on numerous occasions, and how even in a fit of rage, he would hurt other soldiers before he laid a harmful hand on his friend.  They were never supposed to be friends and Valentin wanted to stop it when it first began all those years ago, but the grape-sized piece of humanity left in him allowed it to continue. 

But what he's come to learn, means it'll have to stop.  Tonight.

Valentin takes a step toward the pair.  "You wouldn't believe how shocked I was when I walked past a couple soldiers the other day, only to hear them talking about Federico De Santis and his bitch-ass little brother."  He pauses, trying to gauge the look in Kirill's face.  Nothing.  He looks at Diavolo.  The assassin continues to sway gently, expression hidden.  "I thought they might've been joking about the dead, until I heard his name mentioned again.  This forced me to conduct research of my own and man, would you believe how hard it is to find video footage of one fucked up lunatic fighting a dead man in a parking garage? If I wasn't pissed, it would've been fairly entertaining—"

Valentin reads the room, glancing between his commander and his assassin.  "You two don't find it funny?"

Neither respond.

The humor in Valentin's voice fades quickly.  He points toward the wooden floor, just a few steps away from him.  "Commander. Step forward."

Diavolo's hand shoots out, his fingertips pressing against Kirill's abdomen, stopping the commander in his tracks.  It's more than just a protective maneuver, but one of his many ways to assess a situation.  The assassin can feel Kirill's tension and nervousness.  Diavolo meets the eyes of Valentin Rostov.

"I won't hurt him," The Don promises, hands mimicking innocence.  "I just want to ask Kirill a couple questions.  I wouldn't hurt my best solider."

Diavolo eases his hand away with the reassurance from Valentin and that of Kirill.  The solider shoots his friend a comforting glance and steps forward, hand on his hip, hovering just above his holstered weapon. 

Kirill comes to a stop before one of the most powerful men in Russia.  Valentin speaks first, "Did you know Federico De Santis was alive?"

"Sir," The solider shifts his weight onto the opposite boot, "I took an oath to never lie to you." Kirill blinks, "So, to answer your question, no comment."

A moment passes before another sound is made.  It comes from Valentin in the form of laughter.  A sickening chuckle that echoes throughout the large empty room.  "No comment," The Russian repeats, another bout of laughter at the tip of his tongue.  "No comment? No comment?"  He takes another step toward the solider, who doesn't budge.  "No comment?" Valentin repeats once more.

The sound of the gunshot even causes Diavolo to jump slightly. 

Kirill collapses, blood pouring from his shattered kneecap.  The wound deserved a scream, or at the least, a cry of pain—but the solider simply grits his teeth and does everything he can to regulate his breathing.  "You fucking—"

Diavolo hesitates, like a program trying to break code.  A piece of him wants to disarm Valentin and help Kirill.  The other half of him wasn't trained to disobey orders.  The mere look Valentin sent him moments ago suggested he stay, like a fucking dog.  The internal battle doesn't last long. The assassin stays put.

"Tell me the truth, Kirill, and I'll let you limp out of here."

The solider groans at the pain radiating from his leg. 

"Just tell me the truth," Valentin repeats slowly.  He lowers himself into a squat and shakes his head, "I won't kill you, I just want to know the truth.  Did you know that De Santis boy was alive and did you and that fucking lunatic over there, save his life?  And you say you never lied to me, but you looked me in my face and told me that Federico's body was taken care of—"

"It was taken care of," Kirill chokes out, "Just not the way you wanted."

"Kirill—"

"Yes," The solider painfully admits the truth.  "Yes, to all of your questions."

Valentin stands slowly, nodding in respect.  "Thank you for telling me the truth."

And he puts a bullet in Kirill's head.

Gabriel always believed that he couldn't feel a thing. Who knew all it took was the twitch of a finger to prove him utterly wrong.  He understands now that he's been able to feel his entire life, because this is the first time he has felt nothing.  Weightless, like his feet aren't even touching the ground.  He couldn't move if he wanted to. 

"I know what I said," Valentin offers Diavolo a weak smile as he diverts his attention from his dead solider to his stunned assassin.  "But I'm just as much of a liar as you are a murderer," The Don motions toward Kirill's lifeless body, "Because this is your fault."

Diavolo doesn't respond.

"Am I wrong?" Valentin presses.  His eyes are on Diavolo, who's attention is far from him. He approaches the speechless, motionless assassin, head tilted to the side as he assesses the situation.  He glances between his most recent victim and one he's been victimizing since birth.  "Look at me when I'm talking to.  Better yet, pull your hood down."

The assassin's response is delayed, like his processing system has slowed from the trauma of what he just witnessed.  He raises a shaky hand, gloved fingers grasping at the excess material draping from his hood.  He pulls it down slowly, exposing the red of his eyes.

Valentin notices the unfallen tears but doesn't comment on them.  Gabriel has always favored his mother.  He took all of his mother's best features, leaving little room for his father, but Valentin could always see it.  He could see it in the assassin's mannerisms and in his fighting technique.  In his rage and in his hair.

"How long have you known?" Valentin questions. He takes another step in Gabriel's direction, drawing them as close as he can get.  He adjusts his suit jacket in irritation that the boy won't even meet his eye.  Gabriel's attention still residing on his dead friend.

Valentin shifts his stance and still, Gabriel refuses to glance at the man who stands before him.  "How long have you known?" Valentin repeats in irritation.  "Look at me when I'm fucking talking to you, De Santis."

Gabriel's eyes snap to Valentin.

De Santis.

Gabriel De Santis.

"Long enough," is Gabriel's low response.

Valentin cracks a smile as Gabriel diverts his eyes again.  "Was it worth it?" He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, "Sacrificing your friend for Federico?" He doesn't give Gabriel time to respond, "What were you even planning on getting out of that? I'm confused.  It's funny, to be honest, but what's even funnier is the idea that somewhere in that pathetic brain of yours, you might actually think they'll accept you one day."

In his anger, he grabs for Gabriel's throat.  He tilts the assassin's head in an uncomfortable position, snarling, "You hurt and murdered people they love.  You were in the room when they strung your bitch ass father up and you watched them beat him and you are stupid enough to believe they would love you?  You don't deserve love."  Valentin tightens his grasp, a laugh at the tip of his tongue when he receives no resistance.  "That's why I never told you what it was."

The gun in Valentin's hand connects with Gabriel's temple, sending him tumbling to the floor. He's only down for a second, but his next move doesn't come in the form of retaliation.  His eyes lock on Kirill and he does his best to make his way over there, as unsteady as that is.  He reaches for the commander, but he doesn't quite make it.

Valentin slams a foot down on Gabriel's outstretched hand, staking the assassin to the floor by the heel of his dress shoe.  A painful cry leaves Gabriel's lips.  Pain.  This hurt more than every bullet he's ever taken and every knife that's drawn on his back.  He squeezes his eyes shut, but there's nothing.  Not even a tremor.  It doesn't surprise Gabriel.  That side of him has always been terrified of the man who made it.

"You are nothing."  He didn't need to hear Valentin say it again to believe it.  "That's all you are and that's all you'll ever be.  And if you think for a second that you could play me—that you could possibly take my empire from the inside—you're about as goddamn stupid as your fucking father."

Gabriel doesn't have to speak his intentions for Valentin to figure them out.  Gabriel finding out he's a De Santis plus saving Federico De Santis. Two plus Two. Potentially teaming up with the Italians to take his throne from the inside.  Equals four.

"Let this serve as a lesson." Valentin lowers himself to a squat. The assassin grimaces, his hand still trapped.  The Don glances between his assassin and his former commander, before capturing Gabriel's undivided attention.  "You could never take my throne from me.  You could never do anything to me, because at end of the day, you and that demon of yours only listen to me."

It's unaware how much times passes before there's movement in the room again.  Valentin, long gone, having ordered the clean-up of Kirill's body once Diavolo leaves the room.  But they're all unaware.  Unaware that Diavolo isn't even in the room.  It's just Gabriel, lying on his stomach, staring at his friend, hand clenched in hopes that the pain will fade. 

Gabriel reaches for his friend as a memory crosses his mind.

A young Kirill tosses a foam basketball up in the air, head titled back as he watches it float back towards him.  Gabriel lies on the edge of his mattress, a leg dangling, his arm outstretched and palm wide as he takes in the foreign feeling of something soft beneath him.

This is nothing like his basement.

"What's my purpose?" The assassin asks, picking up their conversation before the silence took over.  The ball floats gingerly into Kirill's hand and the soldier looks over at his friend.  "You said we die when our purpose is done.  What's mine?"

The solider smiles, somewhat in awe of all the words Gabriel managed to string together in one sentence.  He thinks for a second, then tosses the ball again.  "I can't tell you what your purpose is.  You have to figure that out for yourself.  But If I had to guess, probably to tear this empire down."

There's a brief pause.  "And what's yours?"

Kirill misses the ball as it falls back towards him.  It takes a bad bounce and rolls off the edge of his bed.  "I used to think my purpose was protecting Valentin, but then you showed me who he really was, and that purpose changed."

"What is it now?"

Kirill smiles. "Being your friend."

And in the confines of Valentin's office, Gabriel mutters something he's always wanted Kirill to hear.  After every moment the Russian solider offered him kindness, a warm meal, a thin blanket, even a playful grin in a room full of serious people; he always thought it, but he could never say it.  Deeply afraid that the admission of this statement would scare the one nice person away.

Kirill never heard him then.

And he doesn't hear the assassin now.

"Thank you for being my friend."

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

It's been fifteen minutes since Liam peeled Federico off the floor of the conference room. 

If it wasn't for the help of his friend, the body Vincenzo dropped probably would've remained there until morning, cursing quietly.  Federico was presented a helping hand, an icepack, and an order to tell everyone what he knew about Diavolo and his claim that the Russian assassin was Vincenzo's first-born son.  The same one believed and supposedly proven to have been killed by the Russians all those years ago.

The two De Santis men stand in the middle of Liam's office like two siblings who were just caught with their hands in the cookie jar.  One is worse for wear than the other.  Federico holds a steady hand to his cheek, keeping the fresh icepack pressed against the developing bruise.  Vincenzo stands beside him, their shoulders brushing. The two couldn't be further apart.

Vincenzo's attention drifts to the icepack.  "Do I still hit like a bitch?"

"You hit like a grown bitch."

Liam is slumped in the chair behind his desk, elbow propped on his desk, chin in his hand.  His fingers work carefully through the neatly trimmed hair that lines his jaw, eyes drifting between the two De Santis childr—men.  He looked so good this morning and despite the hour pushing late into the evening, he looks ever better.  He managed to unbutton his dress shirt, exposing the black t-shirt he wears underneath. 

I'm on the sofa, clutching my own hands as the others enter.  Partial confusion and concern, paired with a dash of irritation rests on their face as they join the second meeting in an hour.  Commander Giovanni and Tatum enter first.  Tatum positions himself beside Liam's chair in a protective manner, while Gio uses the corner of the king's desk as a seat.  Dominic enters.  Then Veleno and Crixus, trailed closely by Carmen.

There aren't enough seats for everyone. 

Carmen joins me and I scoot over to share the sofa.  Dominic pulls one of the two seats positioned in front of Liam's desk off to the side and drops down.  Veleno and Crixus glance at each other, then at the remaining chair.  The boy's voice is louder than intended. 

"I'll sit in your lap."

Veleno doesn't hesitate.  "I'll stand."

Crixus's response is quick. "Me too."

The two step towards the back of the room.  A quick glance over and you would think Crixus was a complete and utter annoyance to the seasoned assassin, but the sly, constant grin on Veleno's face whenever the boy is around suggests otherwise.  Even I smile when Crixus leans his head on Veleno, prompting the older assassin to use his curly head of hair as an armrest. 

Without a doubt, a friendship destined for eternity.

"Where's Sav?"  Carmen speaks up unexpectedly from my side, drawing my attention to the present.  All eyes, minus those of a pissed off Federico and a could-care-less Vincenzo, rotate to Veleno.

He shakes the hand resting on top of Crixus's head in dismissal. "She doesn't want to—" Veleno changes his mind mid-sentence, "—She's with Rosie.  I'll let her know what's going on."

She doesn't want to get in the way.

"What is going on?" Dominic pitches in from the front of the room.  He leans forward in his chair, neck craned in Liam's direction.  Liam doesn't hear him, his attention still locked on the men that stand before him, consumed with silent thoughts and silent worries.

A moment passes before Liam shows signs of life.  His finger jerks in Rico's direction.  "Tell them what's going on."

To put nervous and Federico in the same sentence is rare, but the way he slowly glances around the room, eyes lingering longer on Carmen than anyone else, suggests that nervous is how he feels.  He glances abruptly at the De Santis beside him and takes an obnoxious step in the opposite direction.  Out of arm's reach.

"I've been in contact with Diavolo since my suicide attempt." He doesn't project his voice, but the room hears easily.  Everybody freezes.  "I wouldn't call us the best of buddies, but I've been looking for him for a long time."  Federico catches Vincenzo out the corner of his eye, and repeats, "A long time."

Vincenzo's shoulders tense.  "What do you mean by that?"

Rico casts another look around the room, making sure to catch the eyes of everyone listening intently.  He had no intention of repeating this.  "I started looking for him when I was seventeen.  I figured if I found him, I would feel less guilty killing myself.  You would've had the son you always wanted, and we could've stopped pretending that I was something I never had a chance to be."

Nobody interrupts Federico.  "I listened to you cry over him, I watched you sit in that old nursery for hours when I needed you. I heard the way you talked about what he could have been.  You can't stand here, in front of all these people, and tell me that I wasn't pathetic attempt at a replacement.  But I will never be your son.  I could never be Diavolo."

And for those listening who might have been lost, the story connects.  Diavolo is Vincenzo's son.  Tatum's shoulders drop.  Gio rises from his half-seated position.  Carmen draws a hand to her mouth.  Veleno drops arm propped on Crixus's head.  The look on Dominic's face suggests he might relapse.  Crixus is the only verbal one: "Oh, shit."

I have to hold Carmen back once Rico steps away from Vincenzo and wipes quickly at the corner of his eye; refraining a tear from falling before the others could see. I pat her leg, a silent suggestion that she can comfort him later but right now it was best to let the time pass in silence.

The sharpness of Vincenzo's voice cuts through the silence with ease.  "I wasn't trying to replace you," He glances over at the boy he once adopted.  The look in his eyes hint at his sincerity and what, deep down, he truly believes.  "I was trying to save you."

"You think you saved me?" Rico reiterates, breathless.  "I never wanted to be Fantasma.  I never wanted to be ghost. You made this."  He's turned to face Vincenzo now, the gap between them closing as his voice rises.  You can hear the anger in his voice, and you can feel the tears.  They're coming. "This was your vision, and I went with it because I didn't want to let you down.  You didn't save me, you ruined me.  You didn't love me, you—"

Vincenzo has heard enough.  He spins on Federico and closes the remainder of space between the two.  His voice overpowers that of the assassin, and immediately Tatum and Gio prep for the need to intervene.

"Shut up.  Shut the fuck up.  Talk shit about me, but don't you ever say I didn't love you."  Vincenzo's words, too, are drenched in anger. In sadness.  In anticipation, knowing the possibilities of how this conversation might end.  "Don't ever say I don't love you.  I left my empire to you.  I came every time you called.  Every nerf-gun war and burger king crown was a sign of it.  Damn my name, but don't say I never loved you."

Federico blinks and positions himself to face Liam once more.  His words are directed to the man beside him.  There's distance in his statement.  "You love what I did for you. You love what I was.  You love what you made me, because let's be honest, somebody like you doesn't know how to love."

Vince scoffs.  "You just learned the definition of love last week."

"Are you done?"

"Are we?"

Two words.  Hundreds of memories.  It was a simple question, poised perfectly to not only end the conversation, but end the iconic duo.  The De Santis men.  Father and adopted son. King and assassin.  A duo done like no other in the decades before us and those that will follow. 

I know this is it, and the look on Vincenzo's face suggests he does too.  This is not something that came to the forefront of Federico's mind last night, but something that has been eating him alive for years.  Anger built up from constant thoughts he didn't feel right sharing.  Something built up for so long that forgiveness feels unlikely.  All of this, leading to another moment of change.  Another loss. 

The end of another era.

Rico slowly lowers the icepack from his face, revealing the bruise beginning to form underneath his eye.  He focuses on the icepack, rather than look over at the individual whose last name he took.  "Yeah," He lifts the ice back to his face, "We're done."

I don't know what I wanted to hear.  A part of me wanted to hear Liam speak up—always the voice of reason.  I wanted to hear him tell them both to just shut up, that they're both hurting, and to not say anything more that either would regret.  A part of me wanted to hear Federico deliver a somehow perfectly ill-timed joke that would send the room spiraling into stomach aching laughter, allowing the seriousness of the conversation to fade with the warm chuckles.

Neither happen, and now it's Vincenzo's turn to respond.  Disappointed, but not surprised, would describe the look that crosses the face of the fallen king.  Another loss.  Another body to be stacked upon the mound of those who served under him and fell at the feet of the Russians.  He ruined their lives, and now he knows he ruined Federico's, too.

Vincenzo's exit is swift.

The room is still reeling when Federico speaks up again. His voice is soft.  "The night of Faith's birthday party, I met with him. I gave him a folder, which contained a few things, but the most important one being the results of their hair DNA test. Hair isn't the most conclusive thing to measure, but I was told that their results—a regular DNA test, with Vincenzo's cooperation, would tell us the same thing. He is Vince's son.  This isn't just coming out my ass.  I'm telling the truth."

Dominic's gentle tone matches that of his brother.  "We believe you."

"Does he still have this folder?" Liam asks Rico.

"Probably."

"Then tell him to bring it to our meeting." Liam prepares to say something else, but his hesitation is clear once he takes a good look at his friend.  Rico's shoulders are slumped, his attention having drifted to the floor.  Everything about his body language suggests he doesn't want to be here, and the way he hastily wipes at the corner of his non-bruised eye confirms that.  "You're dismissed."

Federico's exit is even swifter. 

The office and those who remain welcome the silence that follows.  Silence caused by the overwhelmingly loud thoughts that echo in the mind of everyone in the room.  Crixus is the first to speak what he's thinking.

"So..."  The attention of most in the room slowly turn to him.  "We can't kill Diavolo?"

And if that wasn't on the top of everyone's mind initially, it is now. I can't speak for the others, but the feeling that question put on my chest isn't a pleasant one.  We have to kill Diavolo, and I refuse to accept any other fate—not for him.  I shut my eyes tight until I hear Liam's voice.

He doesn't directly answer Crixus's question. Rather, he pushes his chair away from the desk slowly and glances up at the two soldiers that stand at attention.  "I want the kill order on Diavolo suspended until we have a chance to speak with him. Effective immediately."

Giovanni takes out his family-issued cellphone and gets to work, while Tatum inquires, "What do you expect him to tell you?"

"I don't know," Liam answers honestly, "But you'll know if I don't like it."

"Done." Gio slides the phone back into the one of many pockets his pants contain.  "Humor me," The commander adds, "If you don't like his answer, would you still order to kill him? Even if he's Vincenzo's son?"

The gears in Liam's mind churn, but only for a second.  He found his answer quick, but delays as he positions himself differently in his seat, slouching even more than before.  Liam clears his throat.  "Personally, I couldn't knowingly end his life knowing he shares De Santis blood, no matter his answer."  He points a finger to me, eyes still on Gio.  "I might not fully understand it, but that little lady over there wants him dead—and whatever she wants, she gets."

That earns a smile.

Liam fights a yawn as he grasps the chairs armrest to position himself differently.  "Diavolo is one problem," He waves in the vicinity of where Vincenzo and Federico once stood, "Rico and Vince are another, but I'm more worried about this rescue mission."

Liam has Dominic's full attention now.  "What rescue mission?"

The room stills, once more, the only movement coming from Liam—his eyes drifting from his ex-right hand to the boy in the corner.  "You might want to sit down," He tells Crixus.

The little assassin looks like he's about to argue, but instead moves across the room to drop into the seat across from Liam's desk.  Veleno doesn't leave his side, and perches on the armrest of the same chair—he folds his arms across his chest.

Liam doesn't miss a beat.  "The Russians attacked the OA.  Probably burned the place to the ground the same way he did to the De Santis estate.  Hundreds of assassins are in the wind, but they captured quite a few too." He summarizes simply, finishing with, "The Organization of Assassin was dismantled, and I have reason to believe Valentin has your parents."

"Are the Russians really that powerful?" Carmen questions out loud, clearly concerned.

"They aren't powerful," Crixus snaps.  "You didn't have to be powerful to overthrow the OA. It sounds ridiculous because there's hundreds of us, but most of the assassins there have been conditioned to only obey one voice.  There's only a select few who would've fought back, and that's dependent on if they were locked in their cages."

Veleno only heard one word.  He glances down at the boy, who begins to slouch in his seat.  "Cages?"

Crixus shoots up from his seat and storms for the exit. I catch the look in his eye and the determination on his face and doubt that anything could stop him from where he was going.  I'm grateful to know that Liam's voice does.

Liam rises from his seat and slaps a button beside his desk.  The doors to his office shut and lock in Crixus's face.  "Where the fuck do you think you're going, respectfully?"

The boy spins again.  "I'm going to go save my parents and my friends."

Veleno nimbly slides into the seat Crixus vacated, eyebrows raised as the altercation begins to go down.

"You're going to infiltrate the local Rostov mansion by yourself?" Giovanni wonders, bewilderment in his tone. 

Crixus doesn't have time to give a confident answer.  Liam beats him to a response.  "Kid—" He chuckles in disbelief as he runs a hand down the side of his face.  Exhaustion is starting to set in. "I told you this because I was going to put you on a team with Gio, Tatum, and a few of my best soldiers to go get them back.  All of them.  I would be there, Veleno and Rico, too." He waits a moment, allowing the idea to set in.  "Your brother is a damn good assassin, and I wouldn't send him in there by himself."

Crixus takes two steps back and offers up one statement.  "I'm not my brother."  He takes another step towards Liam's desk, regaining the space he lost when he tried to flee.  His fists are clenched tight, so tight in fact that they're shaking.  He's angry.  "Don't compare me to my brother.  He regrets every person he ever killed.  The only ones I regret are the people I didn't.  We aren't the same.  We weren't made the same."

Statements from Crixus usually end in laughter, not silence. 

His tone caused Dominic to lift his head from his hands.  It caused Veleno to sit up straighter in his seat.  Liam's expression is unreadable and the lips of the two soldiers are parted.  Carmen looks sad.  Sad because he's too young to admit to what he just said with so much conviction.

The boy approaches Liam's desk and reaches into the pocket of his pants, drawing out two crumpled pictures.  He slaps them to Liam's desk and slides them in his direction.  "These are the most recent pictures I have of my parents.  Show them to the family.  Show them to whoever can help. But I want them back." He slowly backs again, hands finding safety in the depths of his pockets. "And if you don't move on the Rostov mansion in 24 hours, I'm going."  A smile crosses Crixus's face.  It would be believable if he hadn't shown his anger just seconds before.  "Respectfully."

Liam taps an inpatient finger on the series of photographs Crixus handed him, but his attention remains locked on the boy still standing before him.  I've been in the line of Liam's sight one too many times and the look Crixus is receiving isn't a welcoming one.  The assassin folds one arm over the other and tilts his head back.

"Can you unlock your office door so I can walk out of here and not look stupid when I smack into the door?" Crixus blinks, then adds, "Please."

The corner of Liam's lip lifts in a soft smile.  He hits the button and Crixus does his best runway walk as he strides out of the room.

He's barely out the room before Liam glances at Dominic.  "You Santiago's are something else."

"Tell me about it."  Dominic pauses.  He looks troubled and I can only assume it has something to do with the news of his parents.  He doesn't look particularly excited, but then again, with the amount of loss we've shared—you would be stupid to get your hopes up. "You think we can save them?"

"I know we can," Liam assures his friend.  He focuses on Giovanni and Tatum.  "I want a small team.  Federico, Veleno, and Crixus will accompany you, too. Show them these pictures," Gio takes one photo. Tatum takes the other.  "Photocopy them and give the originals back to me immediately. Emphasize that these are the individuals we're going for, but—"

Dominic rises to his feet quickly.  He apologizes when he realizes his disrupted the conversation. 

A quiet Veleno speaks up.  "You okay?"

"Yeah, I just..." Dominic tugs at his thin, loose curls.  He looks at Liam.  "Is it okay if I go? And will you let me know before they go get...them? My parents?"

"Yes and of course," Liam nods, concerned. 

Veleno stands as Dominic passes him.  I don't miss the look he sends the former consigliere.  His and Liam's eyes meet, and they share a moment of understanding.  "I'm going to go with him.  Let me know when you want us to move out.  I'll be ready."

Liam leans forward, just far enough to connect his fist to Veleno's with a smile.  "I'll let you know in advance so you can get ready."

Veleno offers a faint smile.  "I'm always ready."

"Don't worry," Giovanni says to Liam as Veleno and Dom leave, side by side.  "We can get these photocopied and returned back to you before you go to sleep."

"Let us know when you plan on meeting with Diavolo," Tatum adds, nodding towards Gio.  "We'll be accompanying you.  Don't even try to argue."

Liam smiles softly.  He doesn't argue.  "Get out of here.  Have a good night."

A synchronized Yes Sir slips pasts the lips of the two soldiers as they being to make their way towards the door.  The two slow as they pass the sofa Carmen and I recline on.  They both send respectful nods in our direction as they pass.  They slow to a stop a few steps later.

"Ms. Vega, we can escort you to your room if you'd like."  That was Tatum's offer.

I can already feel the smile try to pull my lips apart as she sits up.  She glances over at me, then at the uniformed men, then back at me.  I never had a chance. 

Her smile causes mine.  "Faith, I want you to know that I am a strong advocate for women not leaving their friends for strange men while they're out but—" Her eyes catch mine.  "Bye."

I think Liam's laugh is louder than mine.  Carmen waves as she hooks an arm around Tatum and is escorted out the room by, arguably, the two best looking soldiers that serve for the Luciano family.

It's scary how fast my smile fades.

What follows is a peaceful silence.  One that welcomes you like a warm hug.  There's no tension or fading moment of awkwardness.  There're no thoughts, just for this second, and I'm safe in the presence of the one I love and the one who loves me.  But it ends as quickly as it started.

It's Liam's voice.  "You barely spoke." He moves around his table, closing the distance between us quickly.  I stand as he approaches the sofa.  "Are you alright?"

I can't even look him in the eye. I feel cold.  "No."

His hands find my elbows, gently tugging me closer.  My arms wrap around his waist instinctively.  Between the short journey from his desk to the sofa, he discarded the dress shirt he had been wearing all day, now standing before me in a sleeveless, black undershirt. I slip my hands underneath that, calming only when I feel his skin against mine. 

He lets out a breath and murmurs the only reason of my distress that he can think of, "Is it Diavolo?"

My eyes shut.  "I don't know." They open again, and I can feel the distinct burning that comes—typically followed closely by a flood of tears.  "I feel bad.  I feel bad because if I was me, if I was the person I remember, I wouldn't—I wouldn't—I don't give a fuck if he really is Vincenzo's son.  That isn't enough to stop me from killing him."

"Help me understand," Liam mumbles softly.  "What is the difference between what he did in comparison to Federico?"

"Nothing," I admit just as quietly.  "The only difference is that I don't really remember what Federico did.  But I watched Diavolo—" I back away from Liam so quickly my knees nearly buckle against the sofa.  He takes a step back, giving me space as I continue.  "And I can't explain it.  I don't know how to explain how I feel. I can't help you understand because I don't understand.  But every time something bad happens to somebody, it hurts.  It feels like it's taking all the good parts of me and replacing it with anger and it..."

Whatever he sees between the look in my eye and the tears that fall out of them causes him to step forward and hold me. 

The look in Liam's eyes scare me, only because they're reflecting my own.

"I'm scared," I admit quietly. 

"You're still you," He reassures me softly. "You still have all the best parts of you.  They're not being replaced, they're just overwhelmed—"

I cut him off quickly, escaping his grasp once more.  "You don't understand.  I'm terrified—"

"Of what?" He questions, "Losing yourself? Losing me?"

I take a deep breath.  "I watched Zara lose Michael.  I watched you lose Michael. I watched you lose Zara. And I watched Vincenzo lose Zara. I watched Savaughna lose her daughter and I saw every mother figure to Rosalie die.  I watched them kill my mom.  I don't think I'm afraid of losing you anymore.  I already know I will."

There's a lengthy pause.  "Then why are you terrified?"

Liam reaches for the tears that fall.  I catch his wrist in my hand, refusing his touch to leave.

It takes another breath for me to admit my one recurring thought.

"I'm scared of what I'll do to the soul who takes you from me."

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Never in my life have I been in a confined space with Liam and Federico, and it be so quiet. 

No smart comments or laughter-worthy banter.  All three of us, trapped behind the tinted windows of the Luciano family issued SUV.  All three of us, in different worlds. Something's wrong.  Or maybe this is just who we've become.

Each day is beginning to feel longer than the last, and today is no exception.  It's nearly two-thirty in the morning—a long day, having started with Liam announcing the termination of his company, followed by the fact that the Yakuza ordered Zara's execution.  Paired with a fight between the two De Santis's and a meeting—all of this leading to Federico barging into our bedroom as soon as I had willed my eyelids closed, to say, "Diavolo is willing to meet. Tonight."

Tatum is seated across from the three of us, his back against the divider that separates the drivers and the passengers.  A wire is curled around his ear and a large, automatic weapon rests gingerly in his lap.  The soldier cradles the weapon like a newborn.  His eyes are closed.

There's distance between the three of us.  Each of us leaving a seat or two between the other.  I wrap my arms around my stomach and nestle into the comfortable seat.  I might've taken a power nap till we got to the meeting destination if Liam didn't speak up.

Liam's anxiety-bouncing knee stops abruptly.  I can barely see his face, hidden behind the shadows of the dark vehicle and the hood of his sweatshirt.  "You have every right to be upset with Vince," He begins, and although I can barely make out Federico's face, I can picture the irritated eyeroll.  "Every right to feel how you feel.  I'm not taking sides, but I believe him, too.  What he said earlier, about you not being his son, was out of anger.  You can't say he doesn't love you. And you can't say he doesn't see you as his son."

A faint scoff comes from across the vehicle.  Federico.

Liam chooses his next words wisely.  "I grew up thinking Michael didn't love me.  I could've sworn he hated me.  Despised having me.  But just like Vincenzo, he came to my rescue every time I cried for help.  They saved us in ways neither of us will ever know or could ever imagine.  Michael was already helping me run the empire and setting things up for me before I even knew what a king was.  He loved me in his own way, but I didn't know how to interpret that love until it was too late."

For the first time since he started speaking, Rico glances to his left, sharing a look with Liam. 

What hurts the most is the sound of regret coiled around Liam's conclusion.  "I just don't want you to realize this the way I did.  I don't want you to realize Vincenzo's love for you when he's leaving you."

A second passes.  Federico pulls the hood down from around his face. His hair falls messily over his forehead, but it doesn't hide the look in his eyes.  He doesn't add to Liam's statement, but rather says, "I appreciate you."

I can see a faint, somewhat weak smile pull pathetically at the corner of Liam's lips.  His attention doesn't leave Rico, even as the assassin glances away, captivated by the blur that is the night-sky.  "What aren't you telling me?" Liam finally asks.

Rico looks to me.  He wants comfort.  I can barely force a smile in his direction.  His eyes fall to the floor, there's a pause, then he looks at his waiting friend.  "I don't want to be Fantasma anymore.  I want to retire."  He pauses, seemingly prepared to brace for Liam's anticipated response.  It never comes, and Federico continues, "Maybe that's why I've never been happy.  Because the person Vince made me and the person I always wanted to become are constantly fighting."

Federico's statement weighs heavily in the air as Liam quietly processes it.  It's a moment of intense anxiety for Federico. He's never wanted to let people down, even those who he considers have done him wrong. 

"What would you do if you retired?" Liam asks.

"I don't know."  Rico's responds quietly.  "I don't know who I am if I'm not him." 

Liam doesn't respond, internalizing every immediate thought. He shows no sign of disappointment or anger at a decision as important as the one Rico shared.  Deep inside I think it hurts him, it hurts Liam, because he's always enjoyed life with Federico as his friend—but none of us, not even me, know what life is like without ghost.  I respect his decision, and I know Liam does too, but I don't think we want to know a world without Fantasma. 

"You and Faith are the only ones who know," Rico continues softly.  "I don't know how to tell the others," He adds after a brief hesitation.  "Crixus looks up to me so much, but I don't know how to tell him that I'm too weak to do this.  I can't kill without remorse.  That's what I meant when I said I could never be Diavolo.  Vince wants a killer and I'm not one.  I never was."

I twist the hem of my own sweatshirt, listening carefully.  "What were you then?"

The question catches Rico off guard.  He sticks his lower lip out in thought, then lifts his shoulders in a shrug.  "A fraud."

"You would be a good king." The SUV slows to a stop once Liam makes his statement.  It sounded reflective and like it was truly believed by the one who stated it.  The doors to the SUV open as Tatum files out, politely waiting for us to do the same.  Liam repeats himself, "I think you would be a good king."

The transition from the vehicle on the street to the meeting spot consisted of about nine flights of stairs.  It was a random apartment building that appeared tall while we were on the street, but is in no comparison to the buildings that surround it.  Tatum and Gio, who had been in the passenger seat the entire time, insisted on joining us on the rooftop.  Rico said no.  Diavolo wasn't bringing anybody, and neither should we. Tatum insisted once more, his concern growing because none of us came with a gun.  Federico took his, promised him he wouldn't miss, and proceeded to escort us to the roof.  Neither solider appreciated that.

I'm still doubled over, trying to catch my breath five minutes later as we wait.

Federico stands over me, gathering my attention quickly.  He raises his arms over his head in demonstration. I can see his stupid smile in the moonlight.  "They say if you do this you can get more air—"

I punch his exposed stomach.  He doubles over, not in pain but laughter. 

I catch a glimpse of Liam standing at the edge of the roof, the wind having blown the hood away from his face. His hands are shoved in his pockets as he overlooks the view.  I don't know if I even dare ask what he's thinking.

"What if this is a set up?" I ask Rico.

Diavolo responds.  "I don't need to trick you to kill you."

The dark, deep, accent laced voice resonates from one of the two light deprived corners of the rooftop.  The dim lighting radiating above the door, the only exit, is the only lighting—aside from the moon—this location provides.  A table in a populated restaurant would've been better, but I doubt Diavolo could have ever been convinced to meet there.  This was on his terms.

Liam joins me, on my left.  Federico on my right.  There's something different about the assassin's voice.  I've heard it a few times in faked conversation, at least on his part, and I've heard him angry.  His tone is different.  Something is different.

He takes a step into the light.  Toward the light.  Towards us.  Every move is calculated and slowed to a pace only he knows.  The excess, black material of his concealing outfit relinquishes all control to the wind.  The assassin comes to a stop, draped underneath the light.  He remains a safe distance—one Carmen and I both know—he can close quickly.  Frighteningly quick.

Diavolo raises his head and to my surprise, even between the windy conditions of the rooftop, his outfit doesn't expose his identity.  His focus is on Federico.  "I told you no guns."

Rico clears his throat, casting an all-knowing look over me, to Liam. "Sorry, Cindy."  He lifts his sweatshirt, yanks out Tatum's weapon, which was lodged in the waistband of his sweats, and tosses it completely out of arms reach.

I want to beat his ass.

You can see Diavolo's attention switch to Liam.  "I count five snipers."

A simple motion of the hand would dismiss those under Liam's command.  He doesn't give it.  He just smiles.  "I only have three," He corrects.

Something shifts in Diavolo's expression.  "And I have two."

Federico is the first to smile, then Liam.  Both like the answer they heard.  Not the fact that two strangers are perched somewhere, their high-powered rifles aiming at their hearts, but the idea that the assassin had the same thought process.

Liam moves forward and we're forced to follow, even if I don't like it.  "Well then," Liam lets out a faint chuckle, eyes lifting from Diavolo just long enough to scan the buildings behind him.  "We can finish this conversation here or we can finish it in hell.  You choose.  I'm flexible."

"I make that trip every day." Diavolo takes another step forward, "It's tiring."

Liam's eyes narrow, his thoughts racing.  "You send yours away and I'll send mine, if that will make you feel better."

"It would."

"You first."

Diavolo signals behind him, and Liam follows.  It's the same hand-motion, universal to every army, known to every solider.  Diavolo moves swiftly in our direction, forcing Liam and I to split from Rico's side, separating us temporarily as he moves past us.  His attention captured by whatever movement he's looking for. 

"They're gone, and if they aren't, they will be." Liam assures, "Are yours?"

The assassin waits a moment before speaking.  The wind carries his voice away from us, leaving us with what sounds like a faint declaration. It doesn't help that his back is facing us.  "I didn't have any."  He reaches for the back of his head slowly, pulling the hood away from his face.  He turs around.  "I just wanted to see if you were a man of your word."

"And now I know you're not," Liam confirms.

"You are not my target." A folder was in his hands once he turned around, the same on Veleno and I watched Federico hand over to him in the parking lot of the Staples Center.  "Whether you trust me or not, is not a concern of mine." 

He doesn't move any closer, instead he extends his arm and waits for one of the three of us to retrieve the object in his hand.  Rico does it quietly and hands it over to Liam, who flips it open quickly.

While Liam scans, Federico talks.  "You're talkative tonight," He notices.  A frown forms quickly at the look they share.  "Everything alright?"

Gabriel doesn't answer.  He motions toward the folder in Liam's hands.  "I was 10. I thought something was wrong with me. I sounded like them. I spoke like them. Deep down I knew I wasn't them.  I don't look like them."

The assassin doesn't elaborate any more than that, but I understand.  He sounded and spoke like a true Russian would having been raised by them.  But he's right.  He doesn't look like them. Their skin is paler.  Their hair is darker.  Their lips are thinner. 

I glance over Liam's shoulder as he files through the contents of the folder Federico had given Gabriel. There's a litany of clipped news articles and a well-thought out timeline of his journey in Valentin's home, drawn from Gabriel's memory.  I would question the reliability of it, but the assassin's intelligence is not something I would ever question, nor his memory.

Behind the newspaper clippings are the results of the DNA test Federico secretly conducted.  He was right.  The sheet mentioned something along the lines of hair not being the most reliable form of a DNA test, but the results read what Rico had told us.  A DNA test with both Gabriel and Vincenzo's cooperation would yield the same result, just more conclusive.  They're related. 

Liam lets out a breath.  "He wanted a De Santis to take out the De Santis." Wind is all we hear for a long moment.  "You're faking it.  You obey every word and when the time is right, you're going to kill him.  You're going to take his empire down from the inside."

No smile passes over Gabriel's face, but somewhere pride sneaks into his expression.  "Yes."

Liam closes the folder softly and hands it back.  "Killing Valentin is your mission. It's ours too, but we want the entire empire gone, not just its king. 

"I'm not stopping until I stand on the ashes of what made me, and that is not just Valentin."  Gabriel's statement is just further confirmation that our missions might be more similar than they are different.

"If our missions are the same," Rico adds to the conversation, "Why don't we just..." He slaps his hands together, the non-verbal way of saying, team up.

The gentle shake of Gabriel's head suggests his answer.  "Valentin knows I saved your life."

Rico forms his question quickly, "Then why aren't you dead?"

"Because he still believes his voice is the only one I know how to obey."  Gabriel glances across the way, his eyes scanning the top of the neighboring building.  "I can't help you. I can't risk this."

There's a long pause while Gabriel's statement registers.  Liam nods slowly.  "You might have given me a permanent scar on the back of my head and a concussion that hurt like a bitch, but I want to help you.  I don't know you.  I don't trust you.  You might've been raised Russian, but you were born Italian.  You're family, so it hurts that I can't promise you that you won't be hurt—"

"And I can't promise that you won't lose soldiers," Gabriel comments.  "But I can say my intent never was and never will be to kill you.  I do what I do to convince Valentin that I am complicit in his mission."  The assassin's eyes fall on me. His lips part, but he decides against speaking to me. His eyes dart back to Liam, "Meaning I can't promise that you won't be hurt either."

Liam nods out of respect.  "Just meet us at his death bed."

Gabriel nods and moves past us once more, causing us to split again.  He tugs the hood over his head, moving in the direction of the same corner he emerged from. 

"One last thing," Liam adds, causing the assassin to stop and turn.  The chills that originate from the way he cranes his head over his shoulder, and the way the material drapes around his face, should be understand.  He approaches Diavolo, the pictures of the Santiago parents trapped between his fingers.  "Valentin orchestrated a raid on the OA.  Took a few hostage.  You recognize these two?"

Diavolo takes a picture in his gloved hand. "Who?" As in, who are they?

"My parents," Rico says.

The assassin looks at the picture again, then hands it back to Liam.  "Yes.  They're being held at estate here."

"Hypothetically speaking, just for shits and giggles," Federico and I approach the two, "If we were to raid this Rostov estate in search of them, where would we find them?"

The assassin glances between the three of us, like he's hesitant to answer.  "You can find them in the throne room, where the king sleeps."

"They're on the first or second floor?" Liam questions, waiting for confirmation.

"No," Diavolo chuckles deeply.

And I can hear it.  I can hear the switch.  I can hear the deepening of his voice and the darkening of his tone.  A thin line. Separated by nothing but the flip of a hood.

"They're in the basement."

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

a/n:

truly the only way i would give up on this book if you all do.  i'll leave when you leave. when there's nobody left to read or comment lol.  other than that, i have no intention of quitting the series or canceling the books.

thank you to all of the patient individuals.  i really appreciate it, but please just get used to my inconsistent updates.  grad school is continuously kicking my ass and life isn't helping. 

faith barely had any dialogue this chapter and i was ok with it.  sis struggling. a faith villain arc is honestly something i really want to see.

the era that ended was definitely not the one I'm sure you all were thinking about but cue the beautiful slideshow ceremony of every hilarious vincenzo x rico interaction.  It's been real

don't forget to follow me on IG (for updates) and twitter.