The cool sensation of the tiles on the bathroom floor was a surprising delight as our bodies recuperated from the heated primal act.

"I like it long," Marco randomly spoke out as he sat against the floor, stroking his fingers through my dampened hair.

"Hmm?" I replied, all while my head rested on his naked thigh; curled up on the floor with my eyes closed, trying to give my pelvic and leg muscles time to regain their strength. Shower sex, as I have forgotten, was a very extraneous and aerobic workout. Every part of me, inside and out, felt like a plate of red jelly.

"Your hair," he continued, "it's sexy like this. I like it."

"Oh." I haven't had my hair this long since I was younger...

"Any accessory is a danger," I remembered Robert instructing my ten-year-old self. "Earrings, bangles, even your hair—they can all be pulled and used to your disadvantage."

Robert's elite preparation for my brother's and my future failed miserably. With one in the grave and another fooling around with the dark side—I wondered what's going through his head now, after all this? Remorse? Regret? What would he do if he saw me? Should I even attempt to visit to pay my respects?

"It gets in the way," I noted to Marco's original complement, "when it's this long." The morals and lessons my dad taught me throughout my childhood are still, without a doubt, subconsciously engraved into my personality whether I like it or not. "I'll eventually get it cut"

"I didn't think it got in the way earlier," he said with a tone that suggested a slight smirk to our previous actions in the shower.

True, the water weighed my hair down during our sexual endeavors—making it easier to slick back, tug, and pull; but singular strands are not as fun, especially when a few get in your mouth.

"Keep it the way it is now."

I shifted my head and body around, our eyes now parallel from each other, Marco displayed this familiar innocent look on his face—the same look in his eyes that captivated my initial attention a few years ago. Those eyes, completely different from the ones I saw earlier-barbaric, primal. Previous innocence engulfed in the ashes of death...

Who was that man? I continued to replay the senseless murder in my head as I stared at the man I admired, before me.

"Can I ask you something?" I leaned my body forward to an upright sitting position.

"The answer is none"

"Excuse me?" His response took me off guard.

"The number of women I slept with while you were locked up. The answer is none. However, Righty and I have been great friends lately," waving his hand aimlessly in the air.

"That's not what I was gonna ask, but good to know."

"Oh, sorry, ask away." He continued as I watched him walk up to the double vanity bathroom sink; wiping away the steam that accumulated on both mirrors with the palm of the same hand.

"How many people have you killed since I've been locked away?"

Marco gave a quick turn, grabbing and wiping his palm on a small towel hanging near the vanity. "Oh, that." His bluntness to my question matched my own, "You serious?"

I nodded my head while squatting up from the floor.

He quickly turned away from me, grabbing the pile of clothes off the floor near the bathroom door. There was a moment when he wanted to state a number but declined to. "Lost count on that one," he noted.

Eight was, regrettably, my current number, with three fatalities up to date—I had hoped he didn't exceed too much after that, but his eyes, not the answer, gave me the undeniable, cold, truth. Our relationship, his affection for me, was the only light flickering in his heart. The kid-Marco I knew, the one who lived in his father's basement, was gone. Somehow, I was now looking at the embodiment of Angelo Montanari. Change like this is never a good thing, especially in a windy city like Chicago.

No wonder there were many attempts on his life. A new, young, leader. The perfect target for any upcoming gang member or political pioneer.

I followed a few steps behind Marco as he walked out into the body-filled bedroom. The exposed blood became more prominent as the air thickened with the scent of rusted metal. It has been, maybe fifteen, possibly twenty minutes since the attacks and yet both bodies look as if they were freshly mutilated.

Marco carefully maneuvered around the seeping blood of the young teenager laying on the floor, ensuring the absolute cleanliness of his bare feet.

"Why do you want to know?" He asked as he watched me approach the body, "I mean, should it matter?"

"It doesn't, not really," part of me was glad that the boy's face was down against the hardwood floor, obscuring my vision of his dead eyes, an unwelcome blessing.

"I was just...," I quickly leaped over the body as I answered his question. "I was just wondering, that's all."

Dead bodies were not an issue for me—it was the bodies of dead children that haunted my grief. Sixteen or not, he was still an innocent, fucking, kid.

Marco continued to observe my behavior as we walked over the other body and entered the walk-in-closet. He knew my boundaries, my morals—questioning them now, with this look of his, seemed off-putting.

"My Kitten, curious," he said as he had dropped his clothes onto the floor. "Tell me, when are you not?" He sarcastically added.

I stood there, at the brink of the threshold, watching him going through his outfits, particularly picking out pieces from the array of assorted button-ups and pants. Marco hung the outfits over his right arm, he then quickly looked over at me.

"You were gone for nearly six months," he spoke as he grabbed another black suit jacket from a hanger. "While most things stayed the same, a bit changed during that time." He threw the suit jacket towards my direction.

"Last time I checked," I caught it with one hand as I spoke out the obvious. " A bit would be an understatement, wouldn't you think?"

"Your clothes should be delivered soon." He started dressing in front of me. Hopping into his grey Calvin Klein boxers, then he quickly slid on a white V-neck t-shirt. "Put that on for now."

"Delivered?" I guess I misread the closet situation. Grabbing the suit jacket closer, I attempted to wrap my body with it as if it was a cape.

"I made a few phone calls on my way to McDee's." He slid on his trousers, tucking in his white t-shirt before zipping up. "As much as I love to see you naked, I figured you would need an outfit or two for tonight."

"Fuck, your family's thing" I undeniably said aloud. "That's still going on, I thought it was canceled?"

"It'll be a quick visit, I promise." He stepped up closer to me, "now it's my turn for the twenty questions." My 68-inches in height was nearly identical to his as I waited for his game to begin, "how much did you enjoy killing?"

"What?" I was dumbfounded by his statement. "What sort of segue is that?" He should know me better—I'm not a psychopath, I don't enjoy the act of killing. I do it out of necessity. Fight or flight.

He grabbed my shoulders and turned me around to face the bedroom. "Well, since we're being honest here, and you're no longer a cop," he pointed out to the body near our closet. "Did you enjoy watching him suffer?"

"That," I emphasized toward my first assailant, "was self-defense."

"You shot him in the dick." He pointed out. "That's one fucked up defensive tactic"

"He was going to rape me if I didn't-"

"There's no need to justify it, you killed him, and you enjoyed it," he reprimanded. "And him," Marco pointed my body to the teen on the floor as he interrupted me. "I saw the hesitation behind your eyes. You wanted to shoot him in the dick too. "

"You serious?" I forcefully flipped direction to face Marco once more, "Dude, he was just a kid. You're the one who shot him, not me. I don't shoot kids."

"You're smart, Kitten," he stepped around me through the threshold and walked into the bedroom. "You and I both know he would have died regardless."

If it weren't by Marco's hand, it would have been by whichever west side gang leader he was sent by, but that still didn't justify the act. I did not want to kill him.

"Still doesn't mean he deserved to die." I pointed out again while walking over the bodies, following Marco into the hallway. "He was probably thinking about going to prom with the popular girl or something."

"Kitten, he signed his death warrant the minute he accepted this mission." Marco casually picked up the McDonald's bag from the floor. "Stop doubting yourself, you and I both knew that already."

"How about you, hmm?" I instantly declared from the end of the hallway. "The minute you took on your father's role, what'cha thought was going to happen? There's a damn clear target on your back too, Marco."

"You think I don't know that?" The cool air between us became stiff with his unexpected reply. "Yes, I admit, I am my father's son, but" I followed as he took the bags and walked toward the open-concept kitchen. "You, out of all people, know the business."

"Then leave it. Denounce it all. There's no need to be involved"

"It doesn't work that way, Kitten." Marco looked up at me as he placed the paper McDonald's bags on the large kitchen island. "You've seen 'The Godfather', you know there is no mercy," he spoke while walking to the opposite end. "It's kill or be killed, that's our nature."

We were both standing on parallel sides, gazing at the other with hopes of clarity-understanding our roles within the twisted narrative of life.

He continued, "The minute I show a speckle of remorse, any emotion—Boom!" Exaggerating the sound of a loud gunshot with his palm slapping onto the granite countertop "Everything my father accomplished is gone."

He brought the brown bag closer, opening it up and pulling out the packaged contents. "I need you to be on your A-game." He placed one black container on the counter. "I need you to be a killer." Marco pulled out a second black container from the bag and placed it next to the one already on the counter.

"Regardless of what you want me to be," I interjected while placing my hand on top of one black container. "I don't kill for pleasure, revenge, or stupid gang feuds." Listing all the related killings known within his father's line of business.

I slid the container toward myself, "I may not be a cop anymore, but I still have my morals, Marco. I'm not heartless." Killing innocent kids was especially one of them.

He struggled for a moment to find the right words. Knowing very well what I meant by mine. "I'm not saying to give those up." He turned around, opened a nearby drawer, and pulled out a few items from it. "I just need to know; you will kill anyone...no matter what."

He faced back, holding two silver forks in his right hand. "No hesitations, no remorse. Think of it as self-defense."

"Where's this coming from?"

Marco placed one fork down on the counter, next to the black container, near him. He reaches out the other toward me. I leaned out my arm and grasped the top of the fork. "My dad can't protect us anymore, Kitten," he said before letting go. "It's only you and I."

"Then give it all up." I plead once again, "Let's go far away from here and drink margaritas at some random beach at the edge of South America"

"I can't."  I searched his face for a moment. His lips pressed together with a slight grimace as his brows pulled inward displaying the concern, the fear, oozing out of his blue eyes.

"Look, I asked if you enjoyed killing because I need you to." Marco looked immediately down to his container, propping it open. He knew my methods and saw my reaction toward his concern. I observed as he began to dig his fork onto its cold contents.

"I need to know that you can take care of yourself," he said indirectly.

"You're afraid they'll come after me too?" My question caught his attention as he briefly looked up.

"I fear a lot of things." He replied with a mouthful of pancakes, "But losing you...My heart won't be able to handle that again."  I watched as he chewed a bit more and swallowed before continuing. "Sorry...they um... they don't serve burgers before eleven."

"You're not going to lose me." I confidently noted, even though I truly had no realm of the situation at hand.

"You have no idea how crazy this shit has become." He replied before taking another bite, occupying his brain from thinking about plausible outcomes of my death.

My brother's been murdered. There's a huge underground criminal power-shift happening. Oh, and let's not forget the fact that someone is trying to kill Marco. "I can take a wild guess," I whispered to myself before opening the black take-out container in front of me.

"You'll just be scratching the surface," Marco whispered back.

I didn't expect him to hear my previous words, so I ignored him. I knew gang violence, criminal violence, or mere corruption of any kind was amplified in our city. There's something in the Chicago air that brings out our primal nature—the barbaric need to prove ourselves worthy. Challenging ourselves and other men over ego, pride, and meaningless namesake titles.

I cut my pancakes and sausages using the edge of the fork into more favorable bitesize pieces. I didn't want to think about the past, the what-ifs, nor highlight opportunities. What's done, is done. What happened, happened. The future is what matters. Who would want both my brother and Marco dead?

Taking a bite of the cold food, I allowed myself to become engulfed in its mixture of cake and snap-like texture.

We both lingered for a moment in the echoes of plasticware before the doorbell chimed.

"Alexa," Marco immediately spoke into space, "who's at the door?"  The AI system turned on the living room television showing a display of a female figure standing in the hallway, in front of the apartment door, giving her red-manicured middle finger to the notable camera.

"Is that Camilla?" Quickly noticing her signature long blonde balayage hair on the TV background of the live recording.

Marco let out a loud sigh as he moved away from his food. "Yup."

I shifted my gaze from the television, "Should I go hide?"

Marco gave a puzzled look. "Why?"

"Well," I replied, "that is your sister, and I'm not wearing pants."

"But she's a girl too." A few more repetitive bangs followed. We both turned our heads and watched as Camilla took out her cell phone from a small purse she was carrying from its handles. Shortly after, a vibration was heard from Marco's back pocket. He slipped the phone out and looked at the screen. "Shit, she's calling me."

"Pick it up," I said as he acted upon it.

"Oh good, you're alive," her voice heard from the live recording. "Let me in."

"Damn. Give a guy a sec, will ya." He immediately hung up thereafter.

"Get a towel." He told me with gesturing hands, "We'll say you just got out of the shower."

I swiftly ran down the hallway as Marco got into the foyer. I heard him unlock the door as I had jumped over the dead body and immediately walked in, closing the bathroom door behind me.

"God it smells like death in here." Hearing her voice shriek with disgust. "Please tell me you weren't jerking off again."

"And a good morning to you too." I drew away from the conversation after listening to Marco's sarcastic reply.

I quickly pulled his white shirt up and off my body, took a random towel off from the back of the bathroom door, and wrapped myself around in it. Flipping my slightly-damp hair downward, I gave my head a vigorous shake. Taking a quick peek in the mirror as I flipped back upward, I admired the "messy" look it created. I slowly opened the bathroom door, preparing myself for the nagging that will follow.