It was normal for Spot Conlon to find himself sitting on the docks of Brooklyn, perched above all the humanity of the city. On any other occasion his thoughts might be occupied by trivial things, but not that day. Everything had happened so suddenly, he had nothing else to think about except the potential demise of everything he had built up around him for years.
Queens was coming. They were sick of their borders and they were coming for Brooklyn – his kingdom. His ego wanted him to believe they were safe, that there was no way anything could happen. The more he thought about it, the more he didn't believe it. Queens was tough. Tougher than Brooklyn? Doubtful. But they had numbers on their side, and an aggression to expand their territory. He was seriously starting to question whether or not they could hold their own against Queens for as long as it would take. That was why he had sent word to the Bronx.
Together, with the Bronx, they would be unbeatable. It was perfect. They would have Queens surrounded, and then what would happen? Everything would stay the way it was – if not get better for those who came out on top. Brooklyn, that was. Perhaps theirs would be the borders that expanded. He paused in his thoughts, reminding himself not to get cocky before anything happened. He had gotten word back from the Bronx but he was waiting for their liaison to arrive. From what he knew, it was going to be one of the boys higher up in the system. Not the leader, certainly, but someone close.
"Spot?" A painfully familiar voice broke him from his thoughts, and his heart sunk as he forced himself to look down. He fought to keep his expression controlled as he laid eyes on her, the one girl that broke his heart before he had a chance to break hers. She hadn't changed, as far as looks went; she still was one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen. Her dark hair and eyes, her lightly tanned skin – it was all he could do not to jump off his perch and ask her back. But that wasn't a thing the leader of Brooklyn should do. Not to the girl who ditched him. Especially when he didn't know why she was there.
"Cecelia," he greeted, climbing down slowly. "What's the honor?" She didn't speak, though she looked like she was fighting with herself not to. Her slender fingers found the cord that looped around her neck and she pulled it over her head. His eyes searched her face for any lingering emotion, but there was nothing to be found. His heart sunk further as he saw the pendant she held. It was a nail twisted into the shape of an 'X' – the symbol of the Bronx. She was his liason.
"Jones sent me," she said, looking up at him with those bottomless eyes of hers. Those eyes that had always bent his will.
"Of course he did," Spot replied curtly, folding his arms. "Put that away – someone will see." It only made sense for Jones, the leader of the Bronx, to send Cecelia. She was the only weakness he had ever had. "When you send word back to Jones, tell him I thought we were supposed to be on the same side, not trying to hurt each other."
"Spot," she murmured, the softness of her voice catching him off guard. "Jones sent me because I know Brooklyn like the back of my hand, not because of what we had. I told him you would react like this, but he wouldn't listen. This isn't personal."
Whether he believed her or not, he grabbed her arm and started walking her off the dock, toward the lodging house. Seeing her, touching her, hearing her soft accent again, it was driving his crazy. It was unfair. She had ended things with him, and yet there she was. It was as if Jones was taunting him, wanting to break him. Spot still had no idea why Cecelia had left in the first place. She hadn't just left him; she'd left all of Brooklyn. Until five minutes prior, he hadn't known where she'd gone.
"I believe you know the way," he muttered as they entered the lodging house. He let go of her arm as they reached the stairs and his gaze followed her as she went up, though he stayed below to find the only person he knew who could get to the bottom of this.
Dragon was not always the easiest person to find, but Spot knew his best friend and top informant better than anyone and was certain the other boy was in the house. Judging by the time of day, the best bet was the kitchen. His instincts did not disappoint him as he shoved the door open, seeing Dragon leaning back in a chair at the table. At the sight of Spot he sat up quickly.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," he said, raising an eyebrow. He stood slowly as Spot advanced on him, concerned but not feeling threatened. "What's wrong?"
"Cecelia Luchese," Spot said, his voice in a low growl. "Ring any bells?"
"Of course I remember Cecelia," Dragon answered, watching Spot with a steady gaze. "Why?"
"She's upstairs," Spot continued, running his hand through his hair. "Jones sent her. She's the liaison from the Bronx." Dragon whistled softly and Spot shook his head. "I know. I can't believe he would do that, you know? Why her?"
"You talked to her yet?"
"Not much, except to get her here," he said, scowling. "She says it's nothing personal. How could she say that?" He hadn't seen her for months. Any time he thought of her, he felt like he was falling apart. He was Spot Conlon, and he wasn't supposed to fall apart. Not for her, not for anyone. She was the only person who had ever made him falter.
"Go talk to her, I'll find out what I can," Dragon said, shoving the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth as he headed out the backdoor. Spot found himself standing alone in the kitchen, folding his arms and considering his options. Without much hesitation, he headed up the stairs to his room. Every step was harder than the last as he anticipated talking to Cecelia. He shouldn't be scared of her, or anything she had to say, but he was not one for rejection. Technically speaking, she had never actually rejected him. She had just disappeared.
When he opened the door he was greeted with a painfully familiar sight. There was Cecelia, curled up on his bunk. At his entrance she sat up, but it was too late. He closed his eyes for a moment as he pushed the door shut and then looked down at her.
"You never even said goodbye," he said, immediately cursing himself for how desperate he sounded. His heart was beating faster, just looking at her, and he kept his gaze on her as she stood.
"I wanted to," she whispered, shaking her head. "Spot, you have no idea –"
"You left, you didn't say a word, and now here you are," he said, his tone harsher now. "You could have written. You could have stopped by, it's not like the Bronx is that far away. No. You let me believe you didn't want to. For fuck's sake, Celia, for all I know it's torturing you to be here."
"It's not," she interjected, taking a step toward him. "Spot, please, listen? I know I have no right, expecting you to believe me, but please –"
"Do you have any idea what you did?" he hissed, fighting to maintain what little composure he had left. "Ce, I've never… there's never been anyone else who made me feel this way. You drove me crazy, then you left, and now you're here. You were in the Bronx this whole time. Just an afternoon's walk away. All I can assume is that you were through and wanted a clean break. Why actually talk to me about it when you can just walk away?"
"Don't do this," she pleaded, her eyes brimming with tears. "You're mad, I know. Spot, please, just listen?" He shook his head, his heart beating harder against his ribcage as tears started to slip from her eyes.
"I can't do this right now, Celia," he muttered. She wiped the tears off her face, watching him for a long moment before walking to the door. He didn't look at her, just waiting to hear the door latch behind her. As soon as the click rang true, he threw himself onto his bed with a groan.
As if this wasn't going to be hard enough, there she was. The bed was still slightly warm from where she had been laying – the pillow smelled like her hair, lavender and sweet. He closed his eyes, trying not to focus on her. It was hard when she was the only person he had thought of for months. All this time wanting her back, not knowing where she was. The thought of her being so close and not coming to him made his stomach turn. She was the one person he'd loved.
They had met innocently enough. Over the years in Brooklyn, he had made a daily routine for himself. He was the leader. He rose before anyone else and went out, walking through the streets of his city as the sun rose. It was his way of gauging the day, knowing how it would go. He would breathe in the scent of the city, tasting the rain and the wind. The success of the day would be decided before it even started.
It had been a normal morning when he met Cecelia. He walked through many of the same streets each day, but would stray from the familiar path. That was when he had seen her. She had been standing outside a bakery, trying to force the awning open. When he offered to help, she flashed him that endearing smile of hers, her dark hair falling out of its unkempt bun. In no hurry to get back to the house, he stayed and helped her set up the outside of the shop. She'd snuck him breakfast in return before she had to go back inside, before she could get caught lingering out with him.
Later that day he'd found himself walking down that street again. With only one paper left, he entered the shop. The shopkeeper threatened to throw him out, but there she had been, waiting for him. Cecelia appeared from the backroom and lied to her boss, saying she had asked him to bring her a paper. Her shift had been over, then, and she followed him outside. The mischief in her eyes refused to extinguish as she asked him to come and see her again the next day.
She had no idea who he was – maybe that was what drew him to her in the beginning. There were no expectations. She was interested in him because of him, not because he was Spot Conlon. This girl who he met on a whim, by chance, wanted to meet with him again. And again and again. Every day, the same sweet words fell from her lips. He would bring her a newspaper and she would bring him something to eat. For weeks they ate together, their lunches spent in the far corners of the city – far from anyone who expected anything from him and from anyone who would keep tabs on her.
Spot would spend as much time as he could spare with her – away from the docks and the newsies. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy his leadership; it was just that he enjoyed the breaks from reality. Eventually he had taken her into his world, and she had embraced it entirely. She didn't look at him any differently after she knew who he was. There wasn't much for him to learn about her that he hadn't known already. She lived by herself – her parents had died a few years prior. They had come from Italy when she was young, and despite being brought up in New York she had maintained an accent that showed her heritage.
This was the girl who had made him happy in ways he never imagined. She treated him like a normal person, not like someone untouchable. As much as he enjoyed his status, it did not lead to meaningful friendships or anything more. Dragon was a fluke – a leftover from before he was in charge. This was the first girl who had been more than just another notch in his bedpost.
Then she had disappeared. There were no words, no notes. She had left nothing for him to find, nothing to explain her absence. Gone. The newsies of Brooklyn felt the effects of her departure, and Spot sunk past where he had ever been before. Dragon had been sent everywhere to try and find her, to the point that he flat out refused to go on any more errands for Spot unless they had nothing to do with Cecelia. For months he had put those around him through hell as he wallowed in his own self pity. He was certain they were close to uprooting him from his position, casting him aside. It wasn't fitting for someone like him to be broken up about some girl. It was only when he felt truly threatened that he pushed her to the back of his mind, keeping his emotions to himself once again.
Now she was back. She had shown up like nothing had happened, with a Bronx crucifix around her neck. There was no way she was a newsie – Cecelia had never tried to be one when she was in Brooklyn, it was doubtful she would have resorted to it across the river. How had Jones found her, and why was he doing this? Spot sat up quickly as he thought over all the conversations he'd had with anyone from the Bronx.
Had he ever mentioned her to them? He couldn't remember. "Dragon," he said under his breath, glancing out the window, as if willing his friend to be walking up to the house. Not surprisingly, he wasn't. Spot frowned as he reminded himself to send Dragon to the Bronx as soon as he got back. He wouldn't like it, but Spot couldn't find it in himself to care. He had to know what was going on.
