Warnings: god damn I need warnings for these, but I also don't want to give anything away... well, anyway, warnings for violence, major (multiple) character deaths, criminal activity, mentions of drug trafficking, arms trafficking, human trafficking, organ trafficking, nuclear trafficking, basically mentions of everything that sells on the black market, and then also dirty money and money laundering... I think that's it? Did I say character deaths? I did, but I should say it again.
Also, fair warning for my (mediocre) attempts at an elaborate plot with twists, characterisation, and trying to set up an atmosphere, while trying not to outright state it because "show don't tell". God damn this would probably be easier if I hadn't spent so much time analysing books during English Lit lessons.
Off I go from rambling, here is the story!
A/N: The ending to this story has been changed and edited from the original, I think the new one fits better within context.
The room was clear, casual, richly furnished - yet it felt bare. The floor-to-ceiling windows let in the light of day, sunlight streaming into the room and glaring down at the people gathered in the room. The mahogany table shone under the scrutiny of the sunlight. The people gathered inside were all grouped around the table, some in different stages of boredom, others feigning interest for their bosses' sake, others simply there to make sure that nothing went past under their noses. Especially what with two of the world's most competitive businesses and their owners being gathered in the same room together.
One of the rival business's representatives was speaking, commenting about every point in the deal between the two businesses – the point they might strike. It was advantageous, and extremely so, to both sides. The only thing was that both CEOs knew that it would be more so to one of them. They just wanted to be sure that person would be them. But both businessmen were playing the same hand, the same cards, in the same order. Now, all they had been forced to do was stare each other down. The representative then stopped speaking, having finished both criticism and praise of the agreement. No-one made a move to speak.
Except Alfred F. Jones. "How about we all take fifteen, and then come back with a refreshed mind. Sound good?" He stood, gesturing for the others to take a break. Having dismissed lawyers and businessmen alike, Alfred watched them file out of the room one by one. The atmosphere had been slightly on edge for a while now, what with the silent staring match occurring between the two most powerful people in the room. Once the door was closed, he sat back down into the luxurious leather chair, flinging his feet up on the conference table. He then turned to the one other person in the room. "I gotta admit, that didn't go too bad, in my opinion. Am I wrong?" He asked, an innocent smile playing on his lips.
"I cannot say I disagree with you," the rough, accented voice answered. "I must admit, though, it really is quite entertaining to watch you try to cheat me – but you've never yet succeeded, yes?"
Alfred cocked his head in mock thought. An eyebrow raised, he questioned the Russian. "Really? I don't know, 'cause I'd say that if I had cheated you, and you knew about it, then that would mean it's pretty bad cheating." Alfred looked at the lavender eyes across the room.
"That is true, yes," Ivan admitted. "However, by that principle you do not know whether I have cheated you, either."
Alfred chuckled. "True," he admitted. Standing up, he began slowly strolling around the table, picking up random papers and reading them through, before putting them back on the table. "But then, if I've cheated you, and you've cheated me, I guess we're even, and this game's useless."
It was always about one-upping the other, wasn't it? Trying to find a flaw in their logic, a hole in their strategy.
"No wins and no losses, it is unnecessary, yes." Ivan had turned to face Alfred, eyes gleaming with amusement. "But I wonder, why do we then insist on playing the game?"
Alfred's slight smirk broke into a wolfish grin. "Think I need to answer that?"
They looked at each other meaningfully, but not one of those deep, loving gazes shared between lovers. It was a fiery stare, a burning look that bore holes into both of them, tearing into their cores, a look shared only by the deepest of enemies who had once been the best of friends. Who knew each other's best and worst, who had shared those moments, who had nothing left to learn about the other, but still found themselves on different sides of the board, opponents with pawns moving towards the other's camp.
As Alfred looked at Ivan, what he saw was the deep hardness of Russian winters, instilled into him from a harsh childhood in a politically unstable country, with a father whose involvement had been too deep to pull out easily – and yet, when strings had been pulled, he had been once more one of the most respected men in the country. Ivan... he was the man who followed in the father's footsteps, that harsh, unrelenting coldness and business-like attitude, that disregard for emotions, that apathetic look in his eyes. A slight off gleam, that wasn't quite right, unnoticeable but present. Something that shouldn't have been there, probably, but that belonged there so well.
What Ivan saw, when his eyes met Alfred's, was that happy-go-lucky facade, that light, happy, smiling, goofy mask that hid a cold soul that had been twisted a bit too much during his early years – years he had lived in an unforgiving neighbourhood, amongst violence, lying, deals of life and death. A person who knew all tricks to survival, because he had learnt them the hard way. A false empathy that extended to those he did not personally know, those that he was not directly involved with – those whom he could easily fake it to. But there was also that lurking, hiding insanity, something that he controlled either all too well, or not at all.
And yet their pawns were aiming both at each other, and towards themselves.
Ivan then stood, never breaking eye contact with Alfred as he came to stand in front of the steel-eyed American. Alfred raised an eyebrow, a taunting expression fleeting across his face.
"You could still refresh my memory," Ivan prompted, a glint playing in the corner of his eye.
Alfred hummed. "I could..." He played gently with Ivan's tie, before grabbing it roughly and pulling Ivan down to eye-level. "But, I could also make you wait."
Ivan's hands had trapped Alfred between his looming figure and the table. "I think I might agree," he whispered, too soft a sound.
And just like that, they released each other, Ivan turning back to sit down in his chair, Alfred returning to picking up and tossing back papers to and from the desk. It wasn't long before the others returned, and they were thrown back into the most superficial aspect of their game, the one where they traded and tried to beat the other in only one level - power in the industry.
It took another hour, before all of them were dismissed, and Ivan and Alfred returned to their offices and answered calls and gave orders and asked for reports and gave away files that needed to be sent left and right, and met with other important people who wanted their own things to be taken care of.
But they knew this was only the surface of their game. What others saw simply as two successful businessmen trying to beat the other in industry, in market share, in net worth and everything money-related ran so much deeper than that. The world they shared was one of deception, of lies, of pretense, of power-play, of dominance, of assertion, of blood, of passion, of lawlessness, of lewdness, of everything in between.
And the best thing was - no-one knew about it, except the two of them.
Alfred threw his keys into the dish that he had placed onto the chest of drawers, taking off his overcoat before hanging it in the hallway closet. The penthouse duplex was the epitome of classy, in the post-modern style, white-washed walls and pure white marble floor, windows up to the ceiling. The view was breathtaking, the city extending beneath him, as if all of it was there under his control, his to own and exploit. He turned to go to the bedroom, stripping from the suit that now felt too tight, too business-like. He made quick work of changing to a more casual outfit, but still in the classy, recognisably VIP-client, big money kind of outfit. A black silk button-up, showing off just a teaser of his neck and collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Dark grey slacks, expensive Italian dress shoes. He took a look in the mirror, and ran his hand a few times through his hair to give it that wind-tousled, careless air. He knew that on a good day, he attracted attention with his casually good looks, but he was positive that looking like this and having the wallet and name he had, he could get just about anyone anywhere.
Not that he needed anyone else.
Heading straight back out, he grabbed a dark grey jacket to match his trousers and went down to the street. Hailed a taxi, gave the address of a rather infamous but well-known nightclub. When he arrived there, he gave a good tip to the driver not to mention his visit here to anyone - after all, everyone recognised the man who was often giving interviews left and right on the television. But he knew that he could also buy anyone's silence, and that is one of the things he did best.
Along with everything else that he was involved in that was perhaps not so legal.
He was twenty-five, and one of the five richest people in the country. A business started from scratch, a lucky pitch, good publicity and clients, and his was one of the best technological companies in the world. Sold everywhere, bought by everyone, second perhaps only to the one rival business he had.
Whose CEO he happened to be fucking.
Well, Ivan was also fucking him, so they were even once more.
And as he stepped into the club, he was immediately eyed by five different women, stared at by four bodyguards (he assumed Yao must be here somewhere), and another bunch of people that didn't matter. He directed himself towards the VIP-areas, where he knew that either someone was waiting for him, or where he would wait for someone. Entering the private rooms, he noticed immediately the presence of a dignified, slender figure sitting both strenuously and gracefully on the couch. A woman was sidling up to the Asian man, stroking and whispering sweet nothings into an ear that was not listening. A few other people were sitting near him, in varied states of drunkenness.
"Ah, Yao, what a surprise seeing you here!" Alfred said as he entered. "I thought you think these places as vile and lowly, not worth your time?"
Theirs was a love-hate relationship. They were good partners, but would look for anything to bring the other down. But they were, to some extent, necessary to each other. When Yao provided, Alfred sold, and vice versa. They needed each other, but should the situation change, neither would have any qualms against ridding the earth of one form of evil incarnate. While Alfred and Ivan cooperated willingly with each other, their rings very closely tied up together, Yao's was thrown into the mess from necessity. In fact, Yao had been one of Ivan's good friends, having met in Beijing during Ivan's rise to importance. Yao was much older, and knew every trick in the book - better than Alfred and Ivan put together.
"When it's necessary for me to go, I don't think I have much choice," Yao stated with disdain.
"Well, to what do I owe this necessary visit?" Alfred asked, a grin spreading on his face. He had a feeling this would be about a favour Yao needed.
"I need a favour."
Bingo. Alfred smiled, a Cheshire cat in silk shirt. "Say the name, they'll be out by morning."
Yao quirked an eyebrow at the American's cockiness, not that he wasn't used to it. "And why would you assume I need someone dead?"
Alfred laughed lightly. "Every time you've either needed a favour or reclaimed one, it's meant someone's dead the next day."
Yao nodded. "You did guess right. Maybe you're not as stupid as I pegged you for." Alfred let the snark slide, knowing it was semi-friendly teasing. "But yes," Yao continued, handing Alfred a beige file. A quick look inside showed notes and pictures about a person whose name Alfred was not bothered to learn about. "Here's all you need, I want him out by morning. He's not anyone extremely important, so extreme precautions are not necessary."
Alfred smiled sweetly. "I take care of every situation as if it were the most important diplomat in the world, and you know that."
"You really are too happy about this, you know that?" Yao pointed out to the grinning American.
There was something just wrong with each one of them, something bordering between sane and insane, a certain trait of their personalities that made them similar yet distinguished them. Alfred could play any part as well as the world's best actors, playing a wealthy, successful, respectable businessman by day, and a feared, ruthless, smart and dangerous leader of organised crime at night. Ivan lacked nearly all compassion and had no qualms against helping anything and everything that paid good money. And Yao was just never unsettled about anything that happened, taking everything in stride and with that strange unaffected wisdom only he had.
"Hey, means that's one less nosy asshole I have to worry about." Alfred shrugged with a smile on his face. "Won't you stay for just a while? I mean, you just got here, I might as well be a good host and buy a round, no?" Alfred said, extending his arms in an open invitation. There were some matters he wanted to discuss with the man anyway, now was as good a time as any. And when Yao somewhat reluctantly agreed, he turned to call for a round.
"Well, sit back down, make yourself comfortable, you'll be here just a moment," Alfred prompted. "How's business going with ya anyway? Other than you needing one of my men to take out a blundering dimwit?"
Yao snorted. "It's picking up, what with the threat of a closing border, people are panicking about shipments and want to buy enough to last them a while." He had a slight sneer on his face as he spoke, lines showing on his features. "People are idiots, but I guess that's an advantage to me. When you see Ivan, let him know there's a shipment up form Mexico that I'd like for him to take care of." Yao was then given his drink by the girl who had just entered, and so was Alfred. The Chinese man took a sip before speaking. "As for you, I'm starting to wonder if it's going too well?" He asked, a pointed look on his face.
Alfred lifted a thin eyebrow. "I'd like to know what you mean. Laundering's going great, as you know," Alfred said pointedly. "Plus, most of your dealings happen on my territory, so there's that. And the casinos are good business right now. I can't really think of anything that wouldn't be going too well."
Yao shook his head. "You damn well know what I'm on about." When Alfred refused to comment, he sighed. "Let's cut the crap - we both know that we both have spies with the other. And what mine have heard is some interesting stuff, to say the least. This isn't business, and you know it. I've heard about some of your people trailing him, watching him, one of mine saw a file. Ring a bell?"
Alfred chuckled. "So, I guess you heard."
Yao glared. "You left it for me to hear."
Neither were new to he game, and both knew how it worked.
"Did I?" Alfred asked with a casual smile. "Well, I guess I must've been a bit careless, hm?"
"Careless, yes, that's the word," Yao said with a roll of his eyes. The younger man was just too good at lying, but Yao had played this game of chess too long not to notice. "Well?"
"I suppose that I have had people watching him, following him, but it's regular procedure, y'know? Don't trust anyone, that's what I live by. Paranoid? Yeah, I am, never said I ain't. Distrustful? More than most. Careful? Extremely so. See, I don't like to leave loose ends, and anything with personal involvement is wide open. As they say, get rid of your weaknesses before they get rid of you."
Yao seemed to be sizing him up, something he had done at least once every time they met. "You know, maybe you are not so hopeless as I pegged you to be."
Alfred looked up, mirth in his eyes. "Guess I'll take that as a compliment. If you'd care to elaborate...?"
Yao looked at him intensely, more so than he often did. "You're still a kid, god damn. But you are a hell of a good player, one of the best - if I say so myself. The first time I met you, I really did think you were just some rich kid, bored with his life, who wanted some excitement into it. Well, your background did kind of set me off form that thought. But I do not often speak to you in private, but now I do, you can see that your childhood really does define you. I've met only a few people who are from your neighbourhood, and they've all said it's one of the worst, it 'toughens you up'. But you've taken it well in stride, I'd say. Hm, maybe one day you'll be able to be the most feared and revered name in the underworld." Yao finished his drink.
Alfred grinned. "Well, that was probably the nicest thing you've ever said to me, and I'm honoured. But before you leave, I've got a question." Yao turned to the American, his eyes hidden behind the glasses from which a glare was reflecting, the red light bouncing back from the lenses. His blue eyes were unseen behind them. "What you gonna do?"
Yao raised an eyebrow. "What I always do." He stood, and before leaving, said one last thing. "Not get involved." He smiled, that cryptic smile that hinted at the fact that he knew something, he had information, that he would not disclose under any circumstance.
Alfred nodded, standing up as well, and extending a hand towards the other. "That's all I ask. It's always good to do business with you, Wang."
Yao took the hand. "Same to you, Jones. I guess I don't need to warn you?"
Alfred laughed. "Not in the least," he said.
"Be sure not to let your ego get the better of you," Yao hinted, before turning away.
Alfred watched the Chinese man leave. After all of Yao's people had vacated the private room, and Alfred was now left alone into the dimly lit room. There was a subtle, deep red light around him, bathing everything in a ruby glow. Alfred loved red - it symbolised so many things. For one, it reflected wealth. For another, it was an image if violence and blood. And lastly, it was the colour of passion and lust. And all of these were things central to his life. The comfortable plush couches lining the walls of the room were clean, the glass-topped tables were shining gently. In the centre of the room, was a metallic pole. An opening covered by a dark curtain led to where he had come in from. Alfred dug a cigarette from his pocket, and lit it. There were no smoke alarms in the room for multiple reasons, one of them being Alfred's guilty pleasure.
He sat there for a while, people coming and going to ask him favours, buying stuff from him. And he sat, and smoked, and listened, and planned.
"Mr. Jones?"
"Speaking," Alfred stated into the phone.
"It's Mark speaking, I'm calling from your secretary's phone," he was told from the other end of the line. Alfred paused for a moment, catching on to all the double meanings, but then went back to scrolling through the news on his laptop with distinct disinterest.
"Was there something you wanted to say?" He sipped on his morning coffee, listening only with half an ear to what his assistant was saying - if he were to even say anything. "Mark, was there something-?" Alfred pushed, trying to get the assistant to speak his mind.
"Oh, yes, sorry, it's just... an uncomfortable matter I have here... it's, ah, about you, sir."
At that, Alfred perked up. "And what would that be this time?"
"It's just,... I've just received a phone call from a press agent who claimed that... uh..."
"Today is as good as any day, Mark," Alfred said, easily feigning boredom. Yet every time he heard something was about him, and it was something 'uncomfortable', Alfred knew he should listen very carefully and very well.
"They claimed that he has proof that you are, erm, involved in things that you... that you shouldn't be involved in."
Alfred narrowed his eyes. There just had to be someone in his office who knew something, had heard something or seen something. "Things like? Mark, I have other things to do, could you please try to spit it out?"
"He says that he has a source and inside information, and someone who has pictures and proof that you were somehow involved in the Bonnefoy murder a year ago. He didn't say how you were involved, or who his source was, but he said he had proof and that he wants to meet with you privately."
Alfred held in a sigh. The Bonnefoy murder. Damn, had that been a messy affair, and all because every one of them had decided to distrust each other just a bit too much. It had started with Alfred, who had met with the French ambassador because of his business and a few questions regarding the French branch of his corporation (something about a change of regulations, he couldn't even remember any more). Then, it had turned out that Francis was a bit too interested in Alfred and his business, and had found out a bit too much. Yao had had spies on him, helping Alfred to minimise the damage - as a favour. But Francis had, as so many people before him, gotten in a bit too deep - and they had had to act. Alfred had, of course, set a man to trail him and murder him, and his clean-up team could take care of the body. Except that he had not mentioned that to Yao nor Ivan, when Ivan had had his own run-in with the politician, who had connected one too many dots between the Russian and the American. Ivan's men had gotten to him first, and from there, the whole thing had gone sloppy - they had done the best they could, but Ivan's hitman was arrested. But he committed suicide before they found out who he worked for. Luckily. Needless to say, Alfred and Ivan had had a very heated argument after that, things ended up being thrown at each other or the wall, and it had nearly ended with the creation of a real rivalry between them. It had, at some point, been put into the past anyway.
Except that now, apparently, the affair was dug up once more. "Why would he claim that?"
"I don't know, he refused to speak to anyone but you. And he says that when he meets, he wants you to bring in someone else from your office with you, and he will bring someone else - something about a second opinion and a second listener, I don't know."
"Well, what's the man's name?" So that I can do a full background check on the guy. "And when does he want to meet?"
"Uhm... he said his name was Arthur Kirkland and that he worked for Time Magazine. And he said he could meet any day over lunch or dinner, for example."
"Arthur Kirkland, any day during... do you have his number?" After receiving an affirmative answer, he continued. "Call him back, say that I will meet him two days from now, over dinner. He can pick the restaurant." Alfred was already trying to find a way into the Times' database, and find out who this Arthur Kirkland was. He'd also tried to Google him, if he could find any relevant articles - something like exposing politicians or such - but nothing much came up. Either he was good at lying low if he were often involved in this kinds of things, or he was just a newbie who had no clue what he had stumbled upon and thought it could make a good story. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mark."
"Yes, sir."
Alfred hung up, and returned to his computer. He went through everything he could find, trying to dig up articles or proof that he might be someone he should worry about.
There were two types of reporters who dug up 'interesting' news. There were the new, fresh, youngsters, who were looking for anything and everything and questioning everyone and bugging people until they could get an answer that led them deeper than they had expected at first - and then they couldn't help themselves but try to find the edge of the story. Some went too deep, but some knew when to pull out. Then there were the ones who had been in the business for tens of years, who knew the art of questions and stories alike. They were the dangerous ones. They would usually focus on some insignificant stories, but were respected in the news world due to the few major articles they did. They might expose a politician for a remnant of a stain on the bleached sheets of their past, or find out some transactions within the government that were less than legal and more than questionable. Alfred had met both types, and knew them to the core. He had also taken care of both types of reporters before, so he doubted this would be much different.
But he had a feeling this would be the second type of reporter - after all, he had asked that both men be accompanied by someone else, meaning he must have solid proof Alfred was a potentially dangerous man, and therefore he needed someone as a witness if Alfred were to try anything. Little did he know, Alfred would always find a way to dodge even a bullet destined for him, aimed straight at him.
And he would do so this time, too. He just needed to find a way to get his brother alone for a minute away from the office, without it seeming anything more than a boss and his executive assistant having a discussion about work.
Monday did not come too early, and Alfred was at his office extremely early - just as he always was. It was only six in the morning, and only certain people were present - those who had worked overnight, and those who were even earlier birds than Alfred. He had placed a few phone calls, one to Ivan and one to Yao - he was not repeating the Bonnefoy mistake - and was therefore well on the way to preparing for the following day's dinner. He entered his office, his secretary was not yet present. He checked his e-mails, and answered the most urgent ones. When his secretary arrived, he found himself swamped in enough work to keep him busy until lunch.
Which was when Mat- Mark entered the room. "Mr. Jones, I just received an e-mail from one of your suppliers, and he was asking -"
"Mark?" Alfred prompted, sitting back in his chair, waiting for the Canadian to look up at him. He did, slight puzzlement on his face. "Have you had lunch yet?"
"Uh, no, sir."
"Drop the sir, Christ, I've told you this already, we've worked alongside each other for ages by now. Makes me feel old."
"Oh, uh, right, s - but no, I haven't had lunch."
Alfred stood up, beaming. "That's good, 'cause I haven't either, and it's late, and I'm starving, and everyone else seems to have eaten already, so I'm inviting you to lunch." Mark looked at him with some astonishment and questioning, but said nothing. "C'mon, there's this small place that opened a bit down the street - I heard their food is to die for! I really want to try it out, and if you wanna tag along, that's more than fine with me."
"Uh, yes, sure," the other answered quickly.
Alfred told his secretary he would be out for about an hour, and told a few people some things he needed done, and then they were outside on the busy streets of the centre of New York. He turned towards the Canadian slightly before saying in a low voice, "Check if there's a tail."
'Mark' nodded, an almost indiscernible gesture, before looking around casually. He then readjusted his suit jacket, from which a pen dropped, making both men stop for a minute. Alfred looked around quickly. When the other stood back up, he shook his head lightly.
"Good."
"What's this about?"
"I'll tell you when we get there, there's a separate back room, the place is pretty hidden from view - good food and good people, there's few customers, few regulars, and we both know the owner. I've used the place a couple times already. He'll let us have the room, but still we're going by standard procedure," Alfred muttered to the other.
"This about the dinner?" Alfred nodded. "You got a plan?" Another nod. They fell silent, walking alongside each other, heading towards the place Alfred had picked out. They turned off the busy street, and at one point turned to the left - it was a literal hole in the wall, a narrow alley leading to the small joint. There was only two tables occupied, one with a woman clearly on her coffee break from work as she was immersed in a book, and another with a man working away on his laptop. It was a very clean place, small, but nice, and unfrequented. Alfred gestured to the man behind the counter, who smiled in recognition.
"Ah, hello! Welcome to The Joint," the man said with a thick German accent. His red eyes showed he clearly knew what was going on. As Alfred and 'Mark' neared the counter, they spoke in low voices so as not to draw attention from the few people present. Not that either of them seemed to care to lift their eyes up to see the newcomers.
"Table?"
"Follow me," the albino grinned. They were led to the back of the restaurant, where a door led to a small room. There was a table and three chairs, a couch, a fireplace, all very old. "Once they arrived, Gilbert closed the door behind him. "So Al, what I can do you for this time? Or is it Birdie who needs something? Maybe I'll be able to help?" The last comment held a suggestive hint.
"Gil, this is serious, don't start with that," Matthew snapped.
Alfred sighed. "Mattie, it's not that bad. And you're to blame for getting involved with him in the first place, you knew what he was like," Alfred stated. "But yeah, this is still a borderline threat situation, I-" Alfred looked around him. He leant closer to Gilbert, so that he could whisper. "Would ya take it as an offense if I checked the room out?"
"Nah, I know the process, go ahead. Can I get you anything?"
"Oh, yeah, I still haven't eaten, so I'll have whatever's today's special, and... just a Coke. Matt?"
"Yeah, same here - but with water instead of soda," the Canadian said.
"Cool, be back in a minute," Gilbert said before leaving the room. He shut the door behind him, and Alfred and Matthew immediately set to work. They checked the walls and the furniture - glad that there was little of it, and very few trinkets in which a camera or a microphone could be hidden. One could never be too careful when they were in the business. Satisfied with the check, they both sat down at the table.
"Did you find anything?" Matthew asked.
"Nope, not really. I mean there were some articles he'd written, and they were dated between a few years back and just a few months ago. So he's still active, I just can't tell how good he is. If he's done anything like this before, then he's using a pen-name or an alias or something. Which would mean he's pretty smart about it, and can keep himself out of trouble. How about you?"
"Same as you, nothing major or important. I spoke to a few people at Time, and they say he's pretty respected up there, but when I asked 'what for' they shrugged and said 'just is'. So I'm guessing you're in the right direction. Who you taking with you?"
Alfred looked at him over his glasses, blinking at him as if he were dense. "I brought you here to talk this through with you, and you're as involved as I am, and you're my brother, meaning one of the few people I genuinely trust, so of fucking course I'm gonna take Lilli!" He glared at Matthew. "I need you there just in case anything happens, if I need to take care of something."
"You mean when."
Alfred smirked. "How'd you guess?"
Gilbert entered then, bringing them the food and the drinks they asked for. Alfred paid him then and there, so that was sorted out of the way. "Need 'nything else?"
Alfred shook his head. "Nah, just that you watch the door - and if anyone suspicious or that we know comes in you duck in to give us a head start."
"Works with me," Gilbert said. "See ya later, then - especially you, Birdie!" He then went and shut the door behind him.
Alfred and Matthew then began eating, talking things through. "What's he digging that murder up for, anyway?" Alfred asked out loud.
"Dunno, but I think he ties in somehow, I mean he's got to," Matthew said thoughtfully.
Alfred looked at him. "Uh, Matt, I love you loads, your my bro and all that, but sometimes you're kinda stating the obvious."
Matthew huffed. "Well, I'm sorry that I didn't get a sixth sense like you."
"Must've been nice, living with Mom in a nice neighbourhood across the border. Do you know-"
"Yeah, Al, I do, because you've told me a million times. About Kirkland and the other guy - maybe they're just trying to get close to you?"
Alfred shrugged. "Maybe, would sound like something that's their type. Listen, what we're gonna do is this. Do you know who he's bringing with him?"
Matthew nodded. "Lithuanian reporter called Toris Laurinaitis, also works for Time, but I couldn't find much about him." Matthew thought for a minute. "I've been trying to think of different ways this could be deeper than what it probably is, and there's couple options. Either Kirkland was personally involved with Bonnefoy, unlikely but not impossible, in which case he would want revenge. He might work for someone - other than what he says. Someone who might want you off the face of the Earth. There were other ones I thought up but I can't remember."
Alfred furrowed his brows, thoughtful. "Yeah... Let's just see what happens, go from there. But yeah, bring a Browning or whatever you use. I'll bring my .38," Alfred said.
"So," Matthew said, finishing up his meal. "That's sorted, now we just gotta find a motive."
"That we can only do during dinner. But after it, I'll try to get him alone, and if I can't then we'll have to be rid of both of them. Unless they do work for someone, they we can try to get info from them before offing them," Alfred stated. "Can't have them running around knowing too much, can we? But we can't also let them go before finding out who exactly is after us." Matthew voiced his agreement, and they were silent for a moment before Alfred spoke up again. "By the way, on the off chance that they might be working for someone, you got any ideas as to who that could be?"
Matthew looked at him with suspicion, as if reading behind his thoughts and looking deep into his eyes. "Are you-? This about-?"
Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Maybe he's getting suspicious. Fucking dumbass if you ask me, he better not be trying to trail me. But I even had to lie to Yao about this whole shit, 'cause he heard about it by accident."
Matthew narrowed his eyes. "You do know you're not always very careful, that's why you have me. That file on your desk, that was full of pictures and notes and messages and data on him, was left in the office - lucky I cleaned up after you. I know we gotta wrap this up as soon as possible, but not that fast. They're in no hurry, and they agreed to our terms."
"I know they did, but maybe he knows something too." Alfred shrugged. "Why d'ya think I was being so much more careful than usually?"
"I don't know, your near psychotic paranoia?" Matthew bit with snark in his tone.
"C'mon, it's not that bad. But, you can never be too distrustful. Better safe than sorry and all that jazz." Alfred then fished a cigarette out of his pocket, lighting up. Matthew declined when he offered one.
Alfred said with a grin. "Anyway, the plan's on?" His lax accent was beginning to show more now that he was in a relaxed state with nicotine death suspended between his lips.
"Everything's running smooth for now, can't think of why not." Matthew frowned. "I just have one question - are you sure you're up to this?"
"This was always gonna end up one way or the other - either I off him or he offs me. It wasn't gonna be a sappy, romantic, Romeo and Juliet from the Underworld, love story. Hell, I've been told that neither of us is really capable of love, and that this is just some sick obsession we have with the other. I don't know, and to be honest, I don't care. Plus, if I wanna keep my game going, a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do." He leant back in his chair, taking a deep drag and letting the smoke out, swirling upwards between the two men. His eyes flitted around the room, not really looking at anything in particular.
Matthew nodded, remaining silent, and they soon finished up and left the place, diving straight back into the world of false righteousness, of lies to preserve a facade, of everything that screamed 'wrong' when they pretended to be good.
Really, for both of them, this was the easy bit of their jobs.
Alfred adjusted his tie once more, before stepping out of the black car. He handed the keys to the valet, and strode into the high-class restaurant. He made note of what place this was, having already a couple of questions to ask the two reporters he was meeting. Matthew had messaged him only moments earlier to tell him he was there, but that he would wait outside patiently. It was always a tactic of Alfred's to be the one on time, or at least not the last to arrive. That way, people respected him for having been on time, and would hold more importance to the other person's tardiness, taking attention away from the topic of conversation, making it easier for him to get where he wanted to be. He walked into the restaurant, and asked for the name Kirkland. He was led to a more secluded corner of the restaurant, where privacy was slightly higher while still being in the main part of the restaurant.
He made a mental checklist.
They were clearly not working under Time Magazine's orders, because such a high-end venue would not be chosen for a casual dinner and interview - they were dressed to impress, they were attempting to make Alfred respect them and value them for wealth. Make Alfred be on their side, for whatever reason, and feel like he was being treated extremely well. They were clearly distrustful of him, what with a table that was relatively in plain sight by multiple other people. However, the slight privacy they had been given meant that what they were here to discuss was not something they wanted overheard by anyone.
The two men were dressed in clean suits, and were already sitting at the table, speaking in quiet voices. Alfred strode up to the table.
"Mr. Kirkland?" He asked, looking between the two men. The blonde one's eyes snapped up, staring for a moment before he seemed to recognise Alfred.
"Oh, yes, that would be me," he stated, standing up. He extended his hand, in a sharp and polite but cool manner. "Arthur Kirkland, reporter for Time Magazine." Alfred smiled, and took the hand. The handshake was curt, tight, slightly verging on hostile but not quite. "This is my colleague, Toris Laurinaitis," he said as he gestured to the short brunet sitting next to him. Alfred shook hands with him too, before turning back to the British reporter.
"Glad to meet you," Alfred said, never failing to smile his award-winning smile. He went to sit across Kirkland. "My executive assistant - Mark, I think you spoke to him? He should be arriving any minute now."
"Well, we can get started anyway, Mr. Jones, if you don't mind. We have in fact a lot of questions to ask you tonight, and most of them might take a while." Kirkland pulled out a voice recorder, placing it on the table. "Would you mind if I use this to record your answers?"
Alfred laughed softly. A careless, happy, relaxed attitude. "I don't mind either of those things. It's not Mark you requested to meet, is it?" He joked, to lighten the mood. He quickly felt the tense atmosphere surrounding the other two men, and decided that this would be much easier than he thought at first, and he could make this much more fun. "I'm ready when you are." The two were convinced that they were sitting over dinner with potentially one of the most influential and dangerous men on the face of the Earth. Which they were, but they didn't necessarily need to know that.
Kirkland set up the recording device, and when a small light lit up, Alfred knew that was each word counted a lot.
"Mr. Jones-" Kirkland started, but was interrupted very quickly.
"Call me Alfred, we're having dinner, it's cordial."
"Very well, ah... Alfred." It seemed as if Kirkland were tasting the name in his mouth, not quite sure whether he liked it or not. It rolled too strangely off his tongue, too odd. "Do you know of the information that has been found on you via sources, that shall remain unnamed?"
"I do not, as I have not been told what we would really discuss. All I've been told is that there are some sort of accusations against me?"
Kirkland's mouth thinned slightly. "Something of the sort," he said curtly. "Do you remember the murder of the French Ambassador to the United States, Francis Bonnefoy, a year back?"
Alfred put on a slightly thoughtful face, his eyes darting to the right, slightly upwards. He knew they were probably watching his micro-expressions* as well, they did not seem the type to make such accusations without knowing exactly what to look for. "I recall reading about it, yes. Was he not found in the trunk of a car?"
"Yes, that would be the story, yes," Kirkland said, shifting in his seat. "The thing here is, we've received information that you may have been somehow involved with the murder."
Alfred's eyebrow rose upwards. "What do you mean?"
"We know, from sources we will not divulge or disclose, that you have already been nearly brought to court over different legislation issues, am I correct?"
"Yes, that's true, but so have most other businesses I trade with," Alfred said offhandedly, sitting upwards slightly.
"Of course, we are not saying otherwise." Kirkland cleared his throat. "But one of these cases was filed by Francis Bonnefoy, and he had reason to believe that your operations, both in the US and France, were not limited merely to your world-renowned corporation. With the help of a number of lawyers and other influential people he found out that most of the donations and funds given to your business in its early days were made anonymously from a bank account that no longer exists. Additionally, there have been other murders indirectly, but in some way, connected to you - of people who have some link to you, and more often than not a link that was disadvantageous for you. Do you wish to comment on this?"
Alfred frowned. "I do," he said slowly, calmly. "But are these not the kinds of questions I would require my lawyer for, and that I should be asked by the police?" He looked pointedly at the two men, Laurinaitis looking at him before turning his gaze away, Kirkland facing him with an unaffected expression, not letting anything pass. So it shall be played this way, then? "However, I will answer these. Yes, Mr. Bonnefoy helped in filing a lawsuit against me - keyword, helped - but nothing ever came from it. The people who had officially filed it withdrew their claims, and dropped the case. Additionally, I had only a few days prior discussed legislation matters for the branch of my business operating in France, as there were some unclear points that had come to pass that I wanted to be more knowledgeable about. I also wanted to understand the full meaning of those points, and what they limited and did not limit. My intentions may not have been very clear, or may have been misinterpreted." Alfred's hand had been moving along with the explanation, but now went to the glass of water in front of him. He sipped it, before placing it back. "As to the donations I received, I know nothing more of them than you do, except their exact values - well, I used to, of course I can no longer remember them. But the fact that they were anonymous is nothing uncommon, I have all of the legislative paperwork including the memorandums filed somewhere. Additionally, the fact that certain bank accounts no longer exist can be due to several factors, first-"
At that moment, a delicate cough was heard from next to them, and standing there was Matthew - under the alias of 'Mark', the shy and nearly overtly polite Canadian executive assistant to the executive officer sitting at the table.
"Oh, Mark! You made it, we haven't ordered anything yet. This is Mr. Kirkland and Mr. Laurinaitis, and this, gentlemen, is my executive assistant, Mark Anderson. Please, take a seat." Alfred then turned back to the reporters. "What was I...? Oh, the bank accounts. There's quite a lot of explanations for those, but I really don't think you are interested in those, when there are probably much more pressing questions to be asked, yes?" He straightened up in his chair. "Now, how about we order, and then discuss this matter into further depth? I'd hate for us to get into a row before dinner has started," he said.
They soon ordered, and picked up their discussion from where it left off. Dinner went by rather smoothly, mostly with Kirkland asking the questions and Alfred answering them. He was rather convinced he was doing a rather good job at convincing the two others - but there was a nagging feeling they were more than just reporters. There had to be more to the story. And he would find out.
Dinner had soon ended, and the four left the restaurant. Alfred said he had come by taxi, while Matthew said his apartment was a walking distance away. Kirkland and Laurinaitis said they had come straight from the office which was also a walking distance away, and that they had to go back to the office anyway. The four - much to the two reporters' dismay - set off in the same direction, Alfred stating his excuse to be that he had something he needed to talk about certain matters with 'Mark'. At a certain point, 'Mark' pointed out a shortcut via a few slightly darker side-streets and alleys, that would get them faster to where they wanted to go. It wasn't long before they were in a dark enough place for Alfred and Matthew to pull out weapons, load them, and point them at the others' heads. Kirkland and Laurinaitis whipped around only to face the barrels of two guns, one for each of them. They immediately attacked Alfred and Matthew, attempting to gain the upper hand - but after five minutes of relentless wrestling, Alfred and Matthew had them backed against the wall. Kirkland cursed under his breath, while Laurinaitis just stood motionless.
"Okay," Alfred sighed, an abnormal giddiness taking place in his voice. "So, are you two gonna spill the beans, or do we have to spill them out of you ourselves?" He taunted. Matthew handed him a silencer - one which he had hidden in his coat along with one for himself - and Alfred swiftly screwed it onto his gun. His expression darkened quickly. "Who do you work for?"
"Time Magazine," Kirkland stated.
"Who do you work for?" Alfred pressed.
"I said already-"
"And I have a hell of a lot of reasons not to believe you," Alfred countered. "The restaurant was too expensive for a simple interview, however important a person I am, you two acted suspiciously from the beginning, what with your quiet conversations and your not very professional and rather unorthodox questions and methods, you," Alfred said while looking at the Briton, "have a gun tucked into your trousers at the back, and not to mention everything from the nervosity you had, Laurinaitis, while asking me questions. And you, Kirkland, had too calm an exterior if you really were suspecting me of mafia or criminal involvement. It seems like you've done this multiple times before, but sadly, that was not enough experience to face me yet, it seems."
"What do you-"
"All I want is to know who you work for, and what you want from me." Alfred paused for a moment. "Or I can try to guess who you work for, because I feel like I have a hunch. Tell me, do you work for a Russian man named Ivan Braginsky? More commonly known to the wider world as the CEO of my rival business?"
"I don't-"
"Bullshit. Start speaking, or I'll shoot you in the leg, and Mattie here will do the same to your quiet buddy." Alfred then had a thought. "Unless you want to say something," he asked the Lithuanian.
Both cornered men remained silent, not moving, barely breathing. But not a word came from them. Alfred aimed at Kirkland's leg, shot, and watched as the Brit fell to the ground, a scream ripped from his lungs. It was late, they were in a dark alleyway, no-one was around to hear him. It was then that the Lithuanian man shifted uncomfortably, as if debating whether or not to open his mouth and speak.
"Go on," Alfred prompted. "I'm waiting, but not forever - plus if you don't want a lovely bullet in your leg, then I really suggest you take the offer and speak."
Laurinaitis seemed torn for a minute, watching Kirkland, lying on the ground, teeth clenched but eyes blazing.
"Don't - you - fucking - dare!" Kirkland ground out. None of them was really sure whether it was directed at his partner or Alfred, but it didn't really matter at the moment.
The Lithuanian man turned to the American. "Try me."
Those two simple words were enough for Matthew to fire his shot, while Alfred kept the gun aimed towards the Brit. Both men were now on the ground, but it seemed that no progress was being made in either direction.
"We might get more info from a body search?" Matthew tried. Alfred considered the idea for a moment, and found it to really be the best option. There was always the risk someone had heard the commotion, and in that case they would not have indefinite time.
"Go ahead," Alfred said as he shot Kirkland in the head, quickly setting to work - handkerchiefs in hand. Matthew did the same to Laurinaitis, and both dug through the pockets of the two reporters.
"Fuck," Alfred hissed as he pulled out a badge - golden, clean, with the bold letters 'FBI' spelled out right in the middle.
"They know that we-" Matthew started, but didn't really know how to finish the sentence.
Alfred shook his head. "I don't fucking know what the fuck is going on, but this bullshit is ending soon." Alfred dropped the badge and stood up, making sure that neither his shoes nor his clothes held any sign of the blood that was splattered onto the ground. He began moving away from the dead bodies, that would be found in the morning and no-one would be any the wiser as to what had happened. On second thought, Alfred took their wallets, their valuables, everything that a mugger would take. He would dispose of those later. Yet, he couldn't help but curse every God that had ever been.
Gun tucked into the back of his trousers, Alfred walked into the club. He smiled at a few people who looked his way, and scanned the room. He saw some of the people he wanted to see, and that was good enough for him. Skipping ordering a drink, he went straight to lighting a cigarette. The place was foggy, as it was one of the few clubs where one could smoke. He checked his watch for the time, and saw that he was five minutes late from the agreed time. He paused for a moment, taking a slow drag and exhaling it just as slowly. He then began walking towards the back room, the one he had met Yao in a few days earlier. He checked his surroundings quickly, checked his weapon was still safe and hidden, before stepping inside.
"Taking your time, I see."
Alfred eyed the man who was sitting casually on the couch that ran around the room. His dark suit, loosened tie, everything fit the image of who he was. Well, almost everything.
"You know I do," Alfred grinned from the opening. Moving slowly towards Ivan, he contemplated the many ways this evening could play out - he had a few personal favourites, but none of them were very likely. But he knew he had to play his cards right if any of those outcomes were to occur. His grin morphed into an innocent but promising smile, a soft exterior hiding dark depths. Oh, and how dark they were.
"Where've you been?" Alfred exaggerated a pout, his whine drawn out to the extreme to get his point across. He straddled the taller man, his knees on each side of the other's hips. His cigarette still in hand, he looked into those violet eyes.
"Busy," was the curt response. Alfred could sense the amusement behind the false nonchalance, the smile behind the bored expression.
Alfred huffed. "Busy doing what?" He then grinned more dangerously. "You could have been busy doing me..." His breath frail and gentle, it caressed Ivan's neck as Alfred's mouth moved towards it, his lips barely grazing the skin on occasions.
Ivan hummed appreciatively. "But that makes this that much sweeter, doesn't it?" He mused.
Alfred came back up to face Ivan. He looked thoughtful for a minute. "True." There was a moment's silence. "But you know how I love sweet things - how I will take them for myself, and refuse to share them." Alfred took a drag from his cigarette, slowly, carefully. He then exhaled, the smoke surrounding them both for a moment, before both surged towards the other, their lips soon fighting for dominance. Ivan flipped them so that Alfred his back, the gun digging uncomfortably into the small of his back. Alfred growled, before pushing Ivan off of him and to the ground. Ivan had taken a tight hold of him, so they both fell on the hard floor. Alfred ended up on top, straddling Ivan with a triumphant grin on his face.
He was getting bored at the moment, and decided to speed matters up a bit. He reached behind himself to take the gun that was- the gun that-?
"Looking for this?" Ivan asked smugly, holding the gun in Alfred's face. Alfred's eyes narrowed before he reached for the weapon - only to have it taken away from his reach. Ivan pushed Alfred off him, Alfred trying to grip the Russian's jacket before letting go. The American stumbled up as Ivan stood tauntingly over him. "What exactly were you planning on doing with this just now?" He asked, pointing the weapon at Alfred.
As Alfred stood up, however, he pointed a weapon of his own towards Ivan. "Same could be asked of you, fuckwit," Alfred spat. "The hell did you have a gun for?"
Ivan frowned, and keeping the gun poised he felt the inside of his jacket - from where his own gun had been taken. Once more, they had outwitted and been outwitted by the other. It was a never ending circle with them. They were standing at a face-off, each with an equal standing. Who would fire first was the real question.
"I'd just like to know - what the hell are you aiming that at me for?" Alfred snarled.
Ivan held an amused expression on his face. "Really, you think I wouldn't figure out that you've been trailing me? That I wouldn't know that it was in fact you who decided to set an agent on me? How dense do you think I am?"
Alfred paused for a moment. His face showed confusion. "The fuck do you mean?"
"I think you know-"
"If anything, you're the one who decided to send two Feds disguised as Time reporters after me about how they're diggin' up the Bonnefoy affair, investigating me!" The words were fired from his mouth like bullets, with the same intensity. So far, everything was going perfectly.
They both paused now, something beginning to edge its way into their thoughts. "I killed your informant," Ivan stated blandly.
"I killed Kirkland, Matt killed Laurinaitis," Alfred countered.
"Who?"
"Who did you kill?"
"Man named Anderson."
"Who the fuck is that, I put Gil's brother on you trail!"
"I've never heard of Kirkland and whoever, Natalya has been the one following you for weeks now."
Alfred lowered the gun. "Fuck, there's someone else - there's -" He didn't know how to finish that sentence - he hadn't really thought this part out.
"Yao," Ivan said, conviction in his voice.
"Why would he want the Feds involved any more than we do? I don't know it just doesn't feel like-" Alfred cut off. He'd gotten where he wanted. "We should go, and I mean right now." He began directing himself to the far wall of the room, fishing out a key from his wallet. He opened what seemed to be the door to a storage room. Ivan followed him, no questions asked. They knew better than to stop and explain when you were quite possibly on the run. Alfred looked behind him, hearing clearly the sounds of a police force storming the club. They kept going, Alfred turning back to face the direction he was heading in, and smiled.
"Okay, we're out, in the clear."
"That was an absolutely dreadful escape plan."
"It was pretty good, seeing as I had two seconds tops to come up with it!" Alfred said indignantly.
"No, it was not good."
"Could be worse."
"Barely."
"Oh, c'mon, cut me some slack!" Alfred whined. They had reached the alley he wanted. He felt the gun he'd had still tucked back in the back of his trousers, and saw Ivan's in the Russian's hand. Ivan had turned his back to Alfred, the gun held at his side - and Alfred knew the hold was weak. He silently reached back, took out his gun, and moved.
In a flash, he had swiped his gun from Ivan's hand, and put the other one at Ivan's neck. Ivan stiffened immediately, reflexes kicking in. He didn't move at all.
"What the fuck do you think you are doing?" Ivan snarled.
"This went better than I thought, to be honest." Alfred grinned. "Move, against the wall, face to me so I can see you. Hands on your head, I think you know the drill."
Ivan turned around, looking just about ready to attack, but when he saw Alfred pointing not one, but two guns at him, he glared viciously. He did as Alfred told him, having no doubts the American would shoot him should he not. "What are you playing at, Alfred?" Ivan asked, genuine curiosity taking over his anger. Not that it was not still there.
"Well, some of it's my fault, some of it's yours, some of it's even Yao's," Alfred began.
"What does he have to do with this?" Ivan spat.
"Shhhhh!" Alfred shushed him, an excited gleam in his bright blue eyes. "This is my movie-worthy, evil villain explanation, just let me get through it before they get here!"
"They who?"
"Fuck's sake, you're not gonna shut up, are ya? Feds, if you needed to know," Alfred huffed. He readjusted the aim of the two guns. "But now, if you know what's good for you, you might wanna shut up."
Ivan glared even harder, his eyes flaming.
"Well, couple months ago there was that one delivery that didn't exactly go smoothly, on any of our parts. Tipped off the Feds one time too much with too much information. Too careless. So, what happened was that they apprehended me. That's why I was gone for a week or so, because they were tryna squeeze info out of me. Still, that week paid off in my favour. I managed to convince them that no, I was not the mafia boss they were looking for, but that I was in contact with such a boss - one they wanted to catch very much. Said I was involved enough to be ranked in pretty high trust, and therefore knew where I could find the person they were looking for - you. Course they didn't know it was you they were looking for, just a major leader of the Bratva**. Of course I was able to make it so they didn't find out your name, but had enough info to check upon once I delivered you to them. See, they offered me a deal - they let me go if I led them to you. By not giving up your identity, I made myself useful and indispensable. Meaning they had to rely on me, which is what they did. And here we are, I'm a free man. Sorry it had to be at your expense, but I'll be just that much richer!"
Ivan snarled viciously at him, his eyes promising danger and full of a wish to attack Alfred - but he held back. "Then why did you kill the two FBI agents if you were involved with them?"
"Because the fuckwits thought I wouldn't find out who they are, and that the pair of them could trail us until we led them straight to you," Alfred said offhandedly.
"'Us'? 'We'?" Ivan questioned.
"Oh, right, Mattie was in it, got caught same time as me. Bit of a problem for a moment to coordinate our stories, but it worked out," Alfred commented. He glanced at his watch, seeing that he still had about two minutes until the time he had given the Feds as the time he would get Ivan to the alley they were in. All of it had been pre-planned, of course. Despite the beliefs of many, even his own brother, he rarely left anything to chance.
"Fucking great," Ivan muttered, shifting against the wall. "So all of this was a complete sham?"
"All of what?" Alfred asked, puzzled as to what Ivan meant.
"All of this. Us," Ivan clarified.
Alfred laughed, a sound too clear and too bright for a man with such a dark pas tainted by blood. "Lemme tell you something, Ivan," he stopped wheezing for long enough to compose himself. "I'm a good actor, but not that great." He looked around. "I don't really think either of us can call this love-"
"Really?"
"Shush," Alfred hushed. "It's all a bit too fucked up for that. At least by normal standards. The fucking is great - 's amazing, actually. We're a good team, way better than any team I know, because we know each other damn well in and out." He looked momentarily at Ivan. "Well, maybe you didn't know me so much after all." He shrugged. "But I still gotta admit, I do care for you. But not enough as to not sacrifice you in the face of a threat to my life. I've worked too long, too hard for this - my business, both my businesses, to build a life, to rise out of the slums I grew up in. Did you know that the teachers I had once straight up said to my dad there was little to no hope for me, because all I was good at was math? Well, they did," Alfred snorted. "And now, I'm here. An empire, both above and underground. Sure as hell ain't giving this up."
Ivan huffed. "I knew that you were apathetic, but never to this extent."
"The skill came with the life," Alfred said.
"How long do you think I will be imprisoned for?" Ivan asked, probably more of a rhetorical question.
"Probably life."
Ivan laughed hollowly. "You better hope it is for life, because if I am free before I am dead, I will come for you and fight to death for my business back. Because that's what I believe you are going to do, yes? Take over?"
"'Course it is, what the hell do you think? And by then, when the Feds realise who they exchanged, it'll be too late, and I'll have sold my company and I'll be operating from somewhere in Cuba or the Caribbeans or Mexico - so many options!"
Ivan eyed Alfred. "You truly are the most fucked up one of us three."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"Yao is wise, he is old, but even he knows he is losing his touch. But you - you are young, the youngest, mastermind beyond comparison. Never knew this side of you - or maybe I did, just much more subdued."
"Do you really think the art comes without practice? If that's how I want to seem, guess how I will seem?"
He could now hear the police sirens approaching. "Looks like they're here!" Alfred smiled. "Oh, don't take this personally," he said as he readjusted once more his aim. He had exactly thirty seconds before they arrived. He rolled his shoulders, self-satisfaction taking over in his posture. "See, now every time you hear the news, or see our companies thriving, or some other mafia action that baffles the world's governments - you'll know who to thank. Don't they have TV in prisons?" Alfred asked rhetorically. "Yes, they do," he smiled. "And every single time you see me there, smiling, you can bet I'm smiling at you," Alfred grinned. "Even if by normal standards, what we have might not be love, in my mind that's really the only word I can associate to what I feel. I love you, Ivan. But don't take this personally," he smiled lopsidedly as he fired a shot to Ivan's leg.
Ivan's leg gave out, and by the time the FBI arrived he was shouting incoherently at Alfred, spitting insults as best he could amidst the haze of pain clouding his mind. The agents immediately began questioning Alfred on why exactly he had shot him in the leg, Alfred only providing meek excuses of self-defense. Ivan was left wordless, his mind too focused on the pain to think of his own defense. Alfred was slipping right through the FBI's fingers, right in front of Ivan's nose. When Ivan finally regained some sense of coherence and was lifted up, his hands cuffed together behind his back, Alfred was already halfway down the street away from the scene. He could hear Ivan snarling at the agents, trying to get them to understand who it was that had just left.
Locating the black car, he checked the trunk. Four suitcases were there - two smaller ones, full of clothes, and two bigger ones, full of cash. His bank account had been drained and the money transferred, but these were the latest payments in cash from everyone who owed Alfred anything. He would take care of it the moment they crossed the border. He closed the trunk and opened the car door. From the driver's seat, Matthew held up two airplane tickets, from Mexico City to Havana, Cuba, and from there he could make his way anywhere he wanted - after taking care of a few things first.
Alfred glanced back to the standard black cars, where Ivan was barely standing, held up by two agents. Ivan's flaming eyes met Alfred's cool ones, holding a promise of a painful return. Alfred simply waved at Ivan, a shining smile on his features.
"Let's hit the road," Alfred said, grinning broadly.
[*] A micro-expression is a very brief expression and involuntary expression, a fleeting look on a face, that can say a lot about what really is going on in your mind. They are kind of reflexes of your face, ones that cannot be helped, and are difficult to replicate and make them believable. Happiness, sorrow, all emotions have associated micro-expressions that will betray the feeling despite your best attempts at keeping a straight face. In this case, Alfred's eyes darting to the right and upwards would show two things - him trying to remember a Visually Remembered Image (up right), and an Auditory Remembered memory (right). Other micro expressions that you may encounter to be significant to this story are eyes darting down and to the right, showing Internal Dialogue, and the fact that Constructed memories (auditory and visual) will show eyes darting to the left - meaning images and memories you yourself have built, which would imply that you are inventing or imagining something, and therefore lying. Other things linking to this, and lying, are the fact that liars will tend to put something between the person questioning them and themselves; they will get defensive rather than offensive (an innocent person's most common stand) and will face away from their accuser. Liars will also most often have a stiff position, they may touch their face/throat/mouth, avoid touching their heart with an open palm, and most likely either avoid eye contact, or put too much of it. All of these, including liars' speech patterns, are things I included in this story to make Alfred a darker character, who can lie perfectly and has no qualms against doing so, but that he also is still human.
[**] The Bratva (full: Солнцевская братва, Solntsevskaya Bratva, or Solntsevskaya Brotherhood) is the biggest and most powerful crime syndicate of Russian mafia. The organisation is also involved in the international cocaine trade, with its links to multiple drug cartels, and operates all over the United States. (Source: Wikipedia.
A/N: Hello, it's me - again, with something that is not an update of the story I should be updating. Whoops. But this idea just - had to, I'm too much of a piece of RusAme trash to pass up on an opportunity to not write this - this being an amazing piece of absolute I don't know what. It sounded better in my head, but I guess it'll have to do, seeing as I cannot figure out a way to edit it or rewrite it to make it any better without completely scrapping this and the idea and forgetting about it. And that way let it haunt me for months.
For some reason I really like to write Alfred as this messed-up character who's not quite there, and it's usually him who ends up firing the bullets into someone. I need to create some diversity into my fics, maybe next time I'll kill off our dear Alfred. That sounded terrible.
I hope this was not too confusing, because I realise now that there actually are quite a few twists in this (I don't know if they were like obvious and predictable or if I pulled them off ok). I tried to drop hints and give a bit of foreshadowing, but obviously not too much - enough to kind of not be completely without build up to it, but not enough to give it away. Of course, seeing as I am no professional writer (kind of obvious seeing as I am here writing fanfiction instead of coming up with my own characters), I don't really know if it came off that way, or if it was either just ridiculously predictable, or too unpredictable (in which case it's just confusing). Basically this is my poor, half-hearted attempt at an angsty, long one-shot that doesn't stray too much from its main theme but has an elaborate plot and not a redemption ending while the characters are fucked up enough to fit but normal enough to create a sense of reality. I really would like to know how I did. (hint hint)
And I just realised this is probably the longest one-shot I've written (which explains why it was such a pain to write ahemahem). Exactly thirteen bloody thousand words, which means fifteen Open Office pages. I need a life, and I need to chill. Maybe I should have broken this into multiple small chapters, but who cares (not me because I wrote this whole thing already). I just realised that the actual story is twelve thousand words, and the rest is just either me explaining shit about micro-expressions or just rambling.
I wrote this to try and get over my slight writer's block that I'm having with MAD, and it kinda worked, but there was this other idea that popped up and I started writing it - but to any MAD readers, I really do promise that I will not post another random one-shot, and promise to work on the next chapter (I'm already haflway into it, maybe? I don't quite know.) However, after having posted said chapter I cannot promise I will not write another bunch of one-shots.
But enough rambling, and well I hope you enjoyed what you read, and I hope you'll leave a review or follow or favourite this story if you did. Thanks in advance! Until next time!