"No! Harlan!"
Bullets slammed on the wall inches from her body and she screamed, ducking down and covering her head with her hands. "Harlan!"
But her tall, dark-haired companion was nowhere to be found. He had left her ten minutes ago, saying that he needed to check something and that he'd be back. Shortly after he closed the door of the motel room they were staying in, however, gunshots rang through the parking lot and smashed the windows of their room.
She had barely managed to avoid the barrage of bullets and even that was because she had slipped on Harlan's leather jacket, which he had tossed unceremoniously aside the moment they checked in. Now her palms hurt, she could feel grit on her face, and she had a scratch on her arm.
I hate being clumsy, she told herself, screaming Harlan's name again. Where is he?
The thought had barely passed through her mind when a shadow blocked her vision, and Harlan's signature cologne enveloped her like a comforting embrace. But Harlan was not one to comfort someone, especially when they were both in a dangerous situation.
"Move!" Harlan said roughly, pushing her towards the bathroom. "Damn it Jill, move!"
Jill complied; she knew that Harlan would leave her if she didn't move fast enough. After all, he was a hardened assassin sent to kill her and her dad.
Why am I even with the guy who murdered my dad in the first place? she asked herself as she scrambled into the bathroom seconds after a shotgun blast decimated part of the wall next to her. Oh right. Because now we're both targets, and he's my only chance to survive.
Several weeks earlier…
The wind whistled past his ears as he fell. The last things he remembered were the feel of cold steel around his hand, a brief glimpse of a white haired man with a black eye patch over one eye. Now he fell, fell into nothingness, into the unending pit of despair. He didn't know where he was going, nor did he care. All he wanted was to escape the pain of rejection and of betrayal.
He felt his body collide with something hard and intense pain shot on his head, knocking him out instantly. Voices brought him back to consciousness, and when he opened his eyes, he was not the same person he was.
"Who the fuck is that?"
"Why'd you even bring him in here, Dad?"
"Because I want to know who the hell sent him here. Go see if Archie is in town; that stupid shit is the only one with the guts to pull a stunt like this."
Shuffling sounds came, as if someone was walking on a thick carpet. His eyes fluttered open and he groaned.
"Well hello, Sleeping Fucking Beauty," a grating voice said, and a sharp blow was delivered to the side of his head.
"Salvatore. Stop."
He opened his eyes fully to see himself lying down inside a luxurious bedroom. A man in a pinstriped suit was standing at the foot of his bed, smoking a cigar. He had jet black hair, a thick moustache, and eyes that seemed to bore into his soul. Beside him was a man in his early twenties.
"Who are you, son?" the man in the suit asked.
"I…"
Who am I? he thought, frowning. He tried to remember the thoughts that he'd had before the pain came, but he couldn't. He couldn't bring up one thing from his past.
"Looks like he's a retard, Dad," the younger man commented with a smirk. "I say we shoot his ass and dump him in-"
The older man turned and slapped the younger man on the cheek. "One more word, Salvatore. One more."
Salvatore clamped his mouth shut, the left side of his cheek an angry red. The older man looked at Salvatore for a few more moments before turning back to him. "Well, son? We don't have all day."
"I don't…I don't remember."
"I see." The older man nodded. "Who sent you?"
"Nobody. How did I get here?"
"You fell on my dad's business associate," Salvatore replied, shifting to the side as if expecting another slap. "Nearly killed him."
He frowned. He'd had no recollection at all, so he had no choice but to believe what these people were telling him. The very idea of him having no memories at all made him feel helpless, and he hated feeling helpless.
"Since you have no idea who you are – or so you say – I suppose we could make good use of you." The older man looked meaningfully at Salvatore, who took out a sharp scalpel and advanced towards him.
He gripped the sides of the bed, his eyes wide. It seemed as if that was what Salvatore was waiting for, because he lunged, the scalpel aimed at his left eyeball.
Instinct drove him to lash out at Salvatore. To the surprise of the three men, Salvatore flew straight across the room, colliding against the opposite wall. He slid to the floor, the scalpel skittering across the floor and beneath the bed.
Salvatore's dad slowly turned his head towards the figure sitting bolt upright in bed. "How…what the fuck was that?" he demanded, and his "guest" shook his head.
"I don't know," the man said softly, blinking slowly. "I don't know."
"I'm gonna kill you!" Salvatore raged, massaging the back of his head as he stood up.
Salvatore's dad glanced at his son and then back to his guest. Finally he stepped in front of Salvatore, preventing the young man from attacking.
"Stop," he said in low tones. "We need to find more about him before we do anything hasty. Whatever happened…"
"He tried to kill me, Dad!" Salvatore protested, but his dad wasn't listening.
"…he's got some sort of powers and shit. We could use him," Salvatore's dad continued. "If he proves useless, kill him."
Salvatore grunted but stepped back. He knew better than to challenge his dad; although fond of him, Salvatore knew that his dad had no qualms of killing his own kin. Hell, that's what happened to his stepmother.
"Looks like you've been through a lot, son. Rest now, and later we'll figure out what happened to you."
Salvatore fought back a chuckle. His father could certainly be charming when he wanted to. Father and son both watched as their guest slowly lay down, and they could see that he was still watching them. With a warm smile on his face, Salvatore's dad walked towards the door, Salvatore in his wake, and closed the doors.
"Vincent! What the hell?"
Archie DuPont, first-class smuggler and drug dealer, hurried towards Salvatore and Vincent, red-faced and extremely put-upon.
"Ah, Archie. This gag with sending one of your guys to fall onto one of my important clients wasn't amusing," Vincent replied, sliding a cigarette case from his jacket pocket. In one fluid movement, Vincent extracted a cigarette and Salvatore flicked a lighter at one end, as Vincent puffed the rich tobacco.
"What are you talking about?' Archie frowned and stared at the two. "I didn't send anyone!"
"Oh? And who's that in there?" Vincent jerked his head towards the room where the mysterious man was.
"No idea. Listen, I know you've been having a bad week with the Quartermaster case, but don't take it out on me!"
Vincent's expression darkened and Archie backed away, like a dog with its tail between its legs.
"I do whatever the fuck I want, Archie. If I say you get frisked every time you go through that door, you will. And I'd appreciate it if you sounded a little more grateful." Vincent blew a large cloud of smoke in Archie's face, who tried not to cough.
Vincent turned from the drug dealer and made his way into his study. Salvatore slipped his hand inside his pocket and winked at one of the bikini clad girls who were lounging around in the pool earlier. She winked at him and walked past him, but not before he grabbed her wrist and pivoted her around, French kissing her in full view of his dad and Archie.
He then sent her on her way with a playful smack on the butt. She gasped (whether in surprise or pleasure, Salvatore wasn't certain) and Salvatore joined his dad and Archie in the room.
"Now, what is it that you wanted to tell me?"
Vincent, otherwise known as Vincent Cagliari, was the most powerful mob boss in New York. It was whispered that he was directly related Al Capone, but it was also likely that he had simply made it up to gain more respect among the gangs. Vincent had intricate ties to all aspects of the shady dealings made in the city, from drugs, booze, to prostitution.
He had hundreds of goons at his command, plus the loyalty of the many sub-bosses who were spread across the city, from Ellis Island to the Bronx. Vincent also had two sons and a daughter who were there to carry out his name and legacy: Salvatore, Francesco, and Alessandra.
However, there was one thing that separated Vincent Cagliari from the rest of his peers: he had what they called "class." In fact, he frequently rubbed shoulders with the rich, famous, and powerful, including the city's resident "Golden Child," Anthony Stark.
But only Vincent's family members – or those who were left of it – knew that Vincent could be a heartless mercenary, who was quick to forget familial ties if it suited his own ends. Nobody was on solid ground with Vincent, even his own children.
Now, the most powerful mob boss leaned back against his tall-backed leather seat, puffing on the last of his cigarette. Archie sat down on one of the chairs in front of Vincent's desk, trying to hide his shaky hands.
"For fuck's sake, get on with it," Vincent exclaimed after several moments of silence. "I don't have all day to look at you shake like a damn leaf."
"It's the shipment," Archie began, causing Vincent's expression to darken further. "It's…it's been seized."
"Seized. I see. And why did that happen?" Vincent extinguished the cigarette stub on the ashtray on his desk, silently imagining the stub to have Archie's face.
Useless, he thought with silent fury. Is there anyone in this fucking city who can do their job right?
"The…the…someone tipped the…Coast Guard." Archie's voice faltered as Vincent glanced at his son, who immediately extracted a Glock from his jacket. "God's sake, Vincent! I've served you loyally all this years!"
"Indeed you have," Vincent agreed coolly. "Unfortunately, you, like everything else in this world, has an expiration date."
"Vincent!"
"I do not take kindly to failure, Archie, you know that," Vincent reminded him, now completely blasé. He nodded once to Salvatore, who raised the Glock, aimed it at the space between Archie's eyes, and fired.
The gunshot echoed in his ears and he winced.
Despite the two men's reassurances that he would be "fine," he felt the opposite. He wasn't afraid; on the contrary, he felt calm. It was the frustration that was eating him up, frustration at not being able to remember who – or what – he was. He was mentally grabbing at nothingness, but he was certain that there was something – his memories, most likely – that once occupied the blank space in his brain.
He sat up again, noticing that the pain in his body had vanished. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feeling the slight chill of the wooden floor as his feet touched the ground.
It was then when he realized that he was naked from the waist up; he was clad in only a pair of black jeans and a leather belt with a silver buckle. Groaning softly, he put his hands on his head.
"Who are you?"
How many times must I be asked that question in the span of a few minutes? he thought irritably, raising his head.
A girl of about fifteen was sitting on the Parisian loveseat near the window, her legs crossed. She had long, wavy brown hair and was looking at him curiously. Her head was tilted, and he could see the outline of a tattoo peeking out from under the straps of her floral sundress.
"You tell me," he answered, lowering his head again. "Because I have no idea."
"Oh, are we speaking in riddles? I love riddles." She sounded earnest, causing him to look at her again. "Well no, not really."
He blinked, not sure how to take it. Finally he raised his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug. His silence didn't seem to deter her; she stood and sat down beside him on the bed, crossing her legs. He stared at her, surprised.
"You're the guy who fell on Nicholas, aren't you?" she asked with a mischievous grin. "If you are, then good job. He's such a prick. I don't know why Daddy keeps on talking to him."
"Because your Daddy knows how important Nicholas is and wants to maintain his connections."
The girl jumped slightly, her eyes wide. "Daddy!"
"Alessandra, stop bothering our guest and go do your homework." Vincent stepped inside the room, his hands clasped behind his back.
Alessandra sighed and smiled at the man sitting a few inches from her. "See you around, I guess." She then leapt off the bed and walked over to Vincent, who smiled when she kissed him on the cheek. Once she was gone, Vincent closed the door and studied his guest.
"Well. It's obvious you've got some sort of amnesia, considering you really don't know who you are," Vincent started.
"If I had anything I'd have told you by now," the man muttered, his green eyes never leaving Vincent's face.
Vincent smirked and tilted his head. "No, you wouldn't. Still, that doesn't erase the fact that you have some…abilities. What you did to my son may have caused some pain – due to the fact that you did just throw my son against a wall – but it also impressed me."
The green-eyed man frowned, confused.
Is he going to punish me for something I don't seem to have any control over? It just…happened.
"And impressing Vincent Cagliari is no easy task, as most of my associates would tell you," Vincent continued. "You seem to have recovered quickly."
Not knowing what else to say, the man nodded.
"Well. Since you'll be staying with us for a while," – the statement wasn't a question, but more of an order – "I suppose we should think of a name for you. I can't very well call you John Doe forever."
Vincent paused, thinking. He couldn't seem to find a suitable name for the man, for a shadow passed over his face. It was brief, but his guest spotted it immediately. Instead of pointing it out, however, he decided it was more prudent to remain silent.
"Alessandra!" Vincent bellowed over his shoulder, and a few minutes later the girl came running into the room.
"Yes Daddy?"
"Give us a name. Any name."
Alessandra tapped her chin. "I've always liked Harlan."
Vincent repeated the name silently to himself. Finally he shrugged. "One must not be too picky with names. And a last name?"
"Di Firenze," Alessandra replied immediately.
"Thank you, sweetheart."
"You're welcome Daddy."
Alessandra must have known that her services were no longer needed, because she left without further ado. Vincent turned to the green-eyed man and smiled. "Welcome to the Mafia, Harlan Di Firenze."
"Mafia?" the man, now known as Harlan, repeated. "I'm not certain I know what that is."
Vincent's smile widened. "It's your new family."
Family. It seems as if that word holds some special meaning for me. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to be a part of this family.
"Where is he, Gatekeeper?"
The Gatekeeper, otherwise known as Heimdall, turned to the owner of the voice.
Thor, God of Thunder, walked up behind him. He had just come from a party celebrating his return to Asgard, realm of the Norse gods. Unfortunately, Thor was in no mood to celebrating, owing to the fact that his younger (adopted) brother, Loki, had just fallen off the Bifrost and was in some unknown corner of the universe, and that the bridge connecting him to Midgard – and the woman he loved, Jane Foster – was destroyed.
In essence, he was trapped, neither able to search for his brother or to reassure Jane that he was alright.
Heimdall took a deep breath. He was known for his all-seeing eye, which allowed him to see into the nine realms and sense the thoughts of others. These powers were ineffective against Loki, who had managed to sneak in Frost Giants during Thor's ceremony and hide his true intentions from the gatekeeper.
Now Heimdall was using the same power to locate the fallen prince of Asgard.
And he had found Loki.
"He's on Midgard," Heimdall answered, his fingers wrapping around the hilt of his sword. "But he has lost his memories."
"Is that possible?" Thor asked with a frown.
Heimdall nodded. "There is a reason why we use the Bifrost to travel between realms. It prevents us from losing our memories completely."
"And is there no other way to reach him without suffering the same fate?" Now that Thor knew where his brother was, he was determined to rescue him and bring him back to Asgard.
Heimdall hesitated, remembering what Odin had told him about Loki needing to learn his lesson. If Thor brought Loki back now, then the God of Mischief wouldn't have learned anything. And so Heimdall said the only thing he could.
"No."
Author's Note: For those who are curious to the OCs face claims, I've listed them below.
Vincent Cagliari - Gary Oldman
Salvatore Cagliari - Joel Kinnaman
Francesco Cagliari - Max Irons
Alessandra Cagliari - Georgie Henley