ANGEL OF THE BRONX
Somewhere in Manhattan Don Marco Rossi, more commonly known as Uncle Marco to his associates, sat on the couch of his comfortable, skyline apartment in downtown Manhattan. In one hand, he held a bottle of Bud Select, in the other the obituary section of the Post. He didn't even notice as his assistant opened the door for another man until his visitor gave a slight cough. Looking up, Uncle Marco straightened, putting both items down on the table beside him. "Ah," he said, "You made it. Please, sit." He pointed to a plain wood chair right across from him. His visitor nodded, sitting down without so much of as a word. His aire was one of calm, cool, and perfectly complete control. Uncle Marco had never seen anything shake this man, and doubted anything ever could. At least, it better not. The cold demeanor, which projected cruelty bordering on insanity, was just the sort of thing someone in his visitor's line of work needed. Better yet, his visitor was rather young, no more than twenty-five at the most. His visitor's youth told Uncle Marco three things. One, the man was truly a sick fucker if he had mastered his craft at so young an age. Two, he was damn good at what he did if he survived so long. And finally three, he would probably last long enough to be of exponential use to the organization. "So, how is it going?" he asked casually when the visitor made no move to speak. "I'm doing as I've been ordered, Mr. Rossi," the young man replied, his tone equivalent to that of a computers, "I'm only here right now at your direct request." "Yes, yes, I know," Uncle Marco said, sounding slightly irritated at the impertinence, "Would you like something to drink?" The visitor shook his head. "You're sure, perhaps a beer...a glass of..." "No," the visitor replied firmly, "All I want to know is why you wanted to talk to me." Uncle Marco glared at the other man, further annoyed. Then letting out a small chuckle, he quickly diffused his annoyance and sat back further in his chair. He knew better then to let someone like this guy get under his skin. For one, if he could do this now, there was nothing stopping him from pushing Uncle Marco further should they end up on opposing sides. A scenario Uncle Marco was no where near ready to deal thinking about. "I can see you are a smart man," Uncle Marco said, "So I will get straight to the point. It's come to my attention that of the three Saints, you and your associates have managed to capture one." "That is correct," replied the visitor. "It has also come to my attention that you shot the other two men," continued Uncle Marco, leaning in closer to his visitor. "This is also correct," the other man replied, his tone never changing. "So you don't deny any of this?" Uncle Marco confirmed, feeling a sense of superiority. "No," the man replied, "As far as I'm concerned, your information is correct." "Then where is the second body?" Uncle Marco demanded. For a moment, neither man spoke. Uncle Marco felt his sense of superiority give way to an uncomfortable emotion he was not quite familiar with. According to the men he had sent with his visitor to round up the Saints, the man before him had killed the oldest in the group with cold accuracy. Marco himself had even seen the body just before they had dumped it in a shallow grave across the river. There was, of course, the other Saint whom his visitor was supposedly working on making an example of right now. But as for the third, his men swore to Marco they had seen the guy fall behind the alley. But when they had come back for him and the other, he was gone. Suddenly, Marco realized his visitor was laughing at him. "What?" he demanded angrily, leaning further of the couch to get in the man's face. "You're worried about the third Saint," the visitor replied, quickly pulling himself back into a stoic posture, "Well, you needn't. He's been taken care of." "So, he's dead?" Marco asked. His visitor frowned at the question. "If you had wanted dead men," he said quietly, "I would have suggested you send you're best hit men. My job is not to kill, mine is to make an example of people. Make sure people remain to the correct codes of behavior. You hired me to make sure no civilians would get it in there heads to take after the example of these Saints. That is what I am doing." "But is he dead?" Marco replied, backing up slightly. The visitor rose to his feet. Turning, he walked to the door and stopped. "He is in good hands right now," the man said, "I have him exactly where I want him. Goodnight, Mr. Rossi." Anna's Apartment Most of his leg and side had begun to go numb as Connor struggled to pull his Da's body into the alley. He shook his head, trying to wave off unconsciousness for just a little longer. Hands in pockets. Coins on the eyes. He fought back tears as he spoke his family prayer over his father, alone. Footsteps moved closer. Connor looked up. A woman walked into his field of vision. A waitress. He had no idea where the thought came from, but he let it go. Help. He needed help. Moved towards her. Hand on her shoulder. A scream. Now there was pain in his face. Eyes burned. Pain returned to his side, as he felt himself fall... "Sanctus. Espiritus. Redeem us from our Solemn Hour. Sanctus. Espiritus..." Connor bolted up, letting out a groan as his side complained with the sudden movement. "Jesus fuckin' Christ," he cursed under his breath, pressing his hand to his side. The metallic, gothic shite that had pulled him from sleep blared on, rising in volume as the singer repeated the same chorus again. Connor blinked, letting whatever sleep he had left drift off. Reaching up, he rubbed his eyes before running a hand through his hair. Looking around, he felt a brief confusion as he realized he wasn't in the hotel room he, Murphy, and Da had rented for the past few days. The confusion faded quickly as his eyes fell on a picture on a kitchen shelf. Standing up, Connor shuffled to the wall, keeping a tight grip on the furniture around. Much more furniture than even two people really needed. Pausing at the wall, he slowly reached up and picked up the small frame. Three people were in the picture, sitting on the very couch he had slept the night. The two on the right were a man and woman, obviously husband and wife. The man was thickly built, with dark black hair. His arm was slung almost protectively over his wife's shoulder. His wife appeared bony in contrast, with red hair and familiar green eyes. On the left of the couple sat a girl, somewhere between seventeen and eighteen. She wore a pretty, light yellow summer dress with a lower than should be allowed cut. She tried and failed to look as though she was embarrassed to have her picture taken, but her smile gave her away. In fact, all three were smiling in a picture of perfect contentment. Connor frowned, placing the picture back in its place. It seemed such a waste for such joy to be taken out of the world. He thought back to the cheerless face that now belonged to the girl in the picture. What had happened from when this picture was taken to now? Behind him, the track changed on the stereo. This time a heavy rock beat came out, with male vocals. Frowning in annoyance, Connor turned and shuffled towards the contraption. He hit the off button just as the woman's voice from before began to sing. Shaking his head at the music coming out these days, he returned to his spot on the couch. He had just barely gotten comfortable when the door to Anna's room swung open forcefully. "What the hell is wrong..." Anna came out, eyes alight with furry till they fell on Connor, "Oh. You're awake." It took Connor a full five seconds to stutter out, "A-Aye. I..." He was fully aware he was making a complete idiot of himself speaking as he probably looked with mouth dropped open and eyes wide. But he would hardly call it fair considering the history of his sex, or the fact Anna had come barging out of her room clad in what barely could count as pajamas. Purple silk-like panties clung to her narrow hips just beneath a black tank top that likewise clung to the rest of her. He noted that beneath the tank-top her breasts were slightly larger than he had first judged, with the slightest cleavage due to the shirt's cut. Suddenly, he had the feeling as though someone were addressing him. "What?" Anna demanded, confused by the blank expression Connor's face had taken. Following his line of site she glanced down at herself, "Oh Fuck!" Her hands moved to cover herself as she gave Connor a murderous glare. Much to his disappointment, she bolted back to her room shutting the door behind her. When she reappeared, the panties were replaced by a pair of plaid boxers and a baggy red t-shirt that gave her no justice. The murderous expression had yet to leave her face. She approached Connor, hands balled tightly. Stopping just short of the couch, she opened her mouth but no words came out. Closing it, she raised one hand pointing a finger at him and opening her mouth again, only to close it again. Making a fist again, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Did you turn off the stereo?" she finally asked, to furious to know what else to say. "Aye," Connor said sheepishly. The brief image of Anna in her underwear flashed through his mind, but he forced it away, "How can anyone sleep with all that..." "I didn't give you permission to touch my stuff, other than phone," Anna interrupted him, "And even that was only to call your mother. Who isn't generally someone I would usually refer to as a fagot, but then again, I barely know the Irish half of my family." Connor felt a brief flash of anger at her statement. She had been listening in on his conversation. At least, his half of it. He doubted she realized to whom he was speaking. Restraining himself, he also considered the fact the apartment was her home and he was merely a visitor. "So ye're putting me under some kind'a house arrest?" he demanded, pretending he hadn't heard the last half of the statement. "You're free to go now, if you want," Anna shot back, "I'm not going to stop you." "Oh, is that what ye're hopin' for, lass," Connor responded, "Make life miserable enough I'll leave on me own accord. Maybe fall down the stairs on me way out and break my neck." "It'll be no skin off my nose," Anna replied, as Connor realized their voices had risen suddenly to shouting volume, "I'll have done what I'd said I do." "And what would that be, now? Ye've yet to dump me on the street corner like ya said," Connor couldn't stop the words as they flowed out. For some reason, all the anger, frustration, and fears that had been plagueing him since his first talk with Smecker in the hospital broke out now (of all times) at Anna. "Maybe," he said, " I should stay here, then. Till we find me brother." "Then what?" Anna demanded, "Are you two going to make me your permanent hostage. Going to act liike the men you murder you self-righteous son of a bitch." "Ya know what yer problem is?" Connor shot back, driving deep, "Ye really, truly jus' have a thing fer men, but that stick up your ass makes it impossible to get one till you bring 'im h-" Smack He saw the slap long before it even touched his face. It wasn't the strongest he'd ever been given, but the shock of it made him stop. His eyes met Anna's shocked ones. Her chest rose and fell with heightened breaths. Dropping her hand, she turned and bolted once again to her room as though the hounds from hell were after her. All Connor could do was sit there, staring at the door rubbing his cheek. It was only at that moment, he realized someone was knocking. A.N.: Sorry (again) for the late chapter. Work is a pain. Anywho, special disclaimer goes to Within Temptation. I absolutely love "Solemn Hour", it's one of my favorite tracks. Anyway, hope you enjoyed, please review.
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