1922

He is ten when they find him (or perhaps it is the other way around), ten and grubby and thin, a wide-eyed wisp of boy wrapped in a large coat who is only distinguished from the other street rats in New York by the ease with which he takes Don Molsa Martillo's wallet.

It doesn't last long, of course – Firo, high on adrenaline and victory and always a little ambitious for his own good, reaches for the elderly Japanese man's pocket as he darts away – whereon his legs suddenly disappear from under him, and he is suddenly sent flying, leather and coins spilling in a lazy arc through the air and face sprawling onto New York concrete –

Whereon – several moments later, when the impact has dulled somewhat – he is suddenly aware he is on the ground, and surrounded by a circle of faces.

And Firo, tattered coat torn and elbows starting to bleed as he blinks up, pieces of gravel mixed with spit as he gulps, thinks oh, shit.

1923

The apartment had been his mother's idea, not his father's – he, for his part, had been vehemently opposed to the idea, while she had insisted, pressed and argued for it. Something about a normal childhood, the importance of letting him interact with children his own age.

Which Luck Gandor – twelve at the time, and even without the eye-rolling of early adolescence – could not help inwardly laughing at because, well, who couldn't? When your father was a Mafioso and your adopted brother a runaway circus acrobat-in-training you saw maybe twice a year, normalcy had never quite been a luxury he could consider.

But his mother pleads, and his mother begs, and his father – after the initial reluctance and hem-hawing – gives in, rents Keith and Berga and Luck a small flat in the middle of Manhattan with the warning that there would be hell to pay if they burn the place down. Not a real residency, of course – the Gandors, for all their upstart obscurity, would never be caught dead living in such near-squalor – more an extravagantly expensive toy than anything else, a place to play at the semblance of normality. Which Luck (privately, of course; he would never be so insensitive to say it in front of his mother) agrees with his father in thinking that's it's a bit ridiculous – he is twelve after all, twelve and already a Mafioso himself, heart long past innocent and hands long past clean and soul long, long past playing.

But it makes his mother happy, his mother for whom there had been so much more reason to worry than smile in the past months, and so Luck – despite all the ridiculousness of the situation – stays. There is, after all, something comforting in monotony, and even if Keith's cooking is burnt more times than not and Berga can hardly wash dishes for five minutes without breaking one, Luck finds he enjoys it, those rare days of almost-normalcy. He knows, of course, that he is still too quiet, still too reserved and serious for his mother to be truly content, but he also knows that there is nothing else he can do about it; he was, after all, still a Gandor.

Their first neighbors move in a few weeks after the Gandors do, a small boy and a bespectacled man who might be his father or might be his brother, but who smiles and holds the boy's hand all the way to the apartment door.

In terms of age, Luck doesn't think his new neighbor can be more than nine or ten – hardly old enough to be his mother would term a peer or Berga a friend ("a real one too, for Chrissake Luck, you're gonna turn out like Keith if you keep going like this"), but there are niceties and Luck, closer to the boy's age and more socially adept than his older brothers, goes the next day and knocks on the door with a potted plant and a (store-bought, not Keith-made) welcome cake.

It's the boy who opens the door, and up close, he looks even younger than he had from afar – eight or nine, Luck thinks, mentally adjusting his calculations.

"Mister Maiza ain't here," the boy says before Luck can get in a word, "but if you want somethin', I can tell him when he comes back –"

"No need," Luck says, putting on his best smile as he shifts on his feet. "I'm merely here with a present –"

"Yeah?" the boy asks, not bothering to open the door any further, and Luck thinks he hears something like wariness in the tone, a familiar flintiness that Luck recognizes and which contrasts harshly with the boy's round face, "and who are you, huh?"

"Your neighbor," Luck says, slowly placing his gifts down, shifting his posture ever-so-slightly to neutralize any aggression in his stance. "Luck Gandor."

He smiles.

The boy appraises him for a moment, and then nods, slowly opens the door.

"Firo Prochainezo," he says, barefoot in the dusty doorway. "You can come in if you want."

There's a hesitation at first, Gandor aristocrat pride and personal incredulity – invite him inside? and right after Firo had given him a look like he was a hired assassin? – a silent struggle between Mafioso and social conditionings, but in the end, politeness wins out, and Luck, smiling as he picks up his presents, walks inside.

"Sorry about the mess," Firo says, closing the door as Luck walks in (quickly making a surveillance of the place: bare walls, empty flooring except for cluttered piles in corners, weak light accentuated by dim Christmas lights), "Maiza's not around a lot, and we just moved in, so there ain't been a lotta time to clean the place up – hey, you want something to drink?" he asks, rummaging through the mess of tins and cups that constitute the small kitchen.

Luck blinks, and while normally his Gandor instincts would be kicking into high gear, politely refusing the drink (could be poisoned, could be drugged) and covertly checking that his gun was within easy reach (it was, inner pocket of right side: never leave home without it), he finds himself saying "alright" and letting Firo scoop them two mugs of cocoa.

"Here," Firo says, bringing their mugs over to the rickety table Luck had situated himself at; a little of the liquid slops onto the tabletop, but Firo doesn't seem to notice. "So you're Luck, huh?"

"Luck Gandor," he corrects (aristocracy was aristocracy, even if it was among dusty boxes and kids who couldn't be older than nine). He waits for Firo to drink first before taking a sip of his mug; the cocoa is milky, oversweet in the teeth-aching way of caramel or toffee.

"Gandor, huh?" Firo says, leaning an elbow on the table. "Not of the Gandor family, are you? Relax," he laughs, putting his hands up at the wariness that instantly comes over Luck's face, "just curious, you know? Besides," he adds, grinning he sips his cocoa, "it's not like I can exactly complain, either – the Martillos took me in, I figure we're in about the same boat when it comes to cops and what all."

"The Martillos," Luck says, still eying Firo warily despite the boy's easy levity, hand still within easy reach of his right pocket, "I think I might have heard of you."

"Yeah, well, we're not the largest organization around," Firo says, shrugging with such a lack of self-consciousness or calculation that it is disingenuously disarming, "so it's not that surprising. Might wanna get on that, though – I knew who you were."

"The Gandors are quite a bit larger than the Martillos, though."

"So?" Firo asks, pouring them both more hot chocolate. "Principle of the thing, y'know? Especially since we're going to be neighbors and all, be good to brush up on that sort of thing. I mean, Maiza probably won't mind too much it's not like there's a lot I can do, but it's only polite, y'know?"

"I'll try to work on that."

"Good," Firo says, giving Luck a smile. And Luck – despite himself, despite all his Mafioso training and conditioned caution – finds himself smiling back.

"Anyways," Firo says after a while, "thanks for the stuff – Maiza would thank you 'imself if he was here, but he's out buying a couple of last things for Christmas right now. I mean," he says, shrugging as he glances at the scattered boxes and the scraggly Christmas tree, "it's not like we need any more stuff, the place is enough of a mess already, but hey, Christmas's Christmas."

"It's not that bad," Luck says, and it's true – although the small apartment lacked the spic-and-span order his mother's cleanliness and his father's pride had insisted on, it was somehow homely in its half-packed, disorganized charm.

"Yeah?" Firo asks, doubtfully staring at the mess of tinsel and popcorn strings on the ground. "Bet you guys aren't so messy with your Christmas stuff, though."

"We don't really celebrate Christmas around my place," Luck answers and that, too, is true – although their mother was always scrupulous in providing them with presents, family gatherings and Christmas tree-decorating- had never quite been a Gandor tradition. Again, the mafia business made that rather difficult. Not that he minded, of course; not that he objected. Luck understood, of course, understood and did not judge – it was his father's business, after all, what he did to feed them and it was not Luck's place to judge.

"Oh?" Firo asks, cocking his head to the side. "That so."

"Yeah," Luck says, shrugging: without judgment, without emotion. "Too busy for it, most of the time."

Firo watches Luck for another moment, eyes suddenly older than rest of his face, then brightens.

"Well," he says, "you could come over and celebrate with us, then!"

Luck blinks, but before he can regain his composure, Firo is already leaning towards him, a spill of eagerness and half-formed plans.

"I mean, Maiza's coming back soon with the ornaments, so we were gonna decorate the tree tonight, so you could just stay over – I know our place ain't large or anything, especially since you guys are Gandors and all that –"

"I, I – thank you for the offer," Luck finally manages, gaining a hold of his tongue again, "but I'm afraid I'll have to decline –"

"Oh, come on! It's not like you have to stay until then, and it'd only be an hour or so, so you can't give me any shit about being too busy – Maiza'd insist on keeping you here for dinner too if he was here, and I mean, he'd be right, but even if you can't do that, you should come over for the tree – it's the least we can do, you know? Seeing since you already came over all friendly-like with all that stuff for us."

"It wasn't anything –"

"Yes," Firo says, eyes suddenly intense as he stares at Luck, "it was."

"Besides," Firo adds after a moment, eyes losing their intensity as he turns away and shrugs, "it's not like I've had that many Christmas either, really. So you should come over. It'd be fun."

Fun.

Fun was not a word Luck Gandor was familiar with, was instead something he had only heard others use and which he had never coveted, too practical to long for a luxury he had always known he would never have – other children, yes, but not Luck Gander, who at twelve-almost-thirteen already carried the Gandor weight on his shoulders, at twelve-almost-thirteen had seen more death than men twice his age, at twelve-almost-thirteen was already Responsible – and the responsible thing to do, of course, would have been to decline, go back and help his brothers balance the casino checkbooks or make plans for dealing with the Geonard thugs recently intruding on Gandor territory –

But Luck does not.

Instead, he comes over, stays for both dinner and dessert after the spindly tree is decorated, Maiza fussing over the state of the house and the dryness of the deliciously un-Keith-cooked casserole while Luck assures him that everything was fine, everything was perfect, and Firo rolls his eyes at it all – and it is, indeed, fun.

1930.

Maiza knows – knew, really, as they all had from the beginning, when they had first taken in the half-starved orphan boy that shivering November day – that nothing good could come of it. They were not, after all, an orphanage or some charitable institution, some trade school or kindly patron who would take the boy in and raise him for an easy, innocent middle-class life, but men of gunpowder and steel, men with bounties on their heads and blood on their hands – the camorra, not the mafia, but none the less dangerous for the difference in origin. Nothing good could come of it, that had been decided from the start, and Maiza had known it the moment he had looked at the sprawled mess of cloth and unkempt hair and seen Gretto's eyes blinking back.

He should have turned then, should have left the scene and ran, ran as far from Manhattan and New York as he could, boarded the next train to California or bought tickets to Mexico, anything to get away from this, Gretto and the Advena Avis staring at him from a dusty slum child's eyes –

But.

But he didn't. Had, instead, stayed, watched as the boy had picked himself up, gaze turning from stunned to terrified to finally defiant as seven Martillo executives silently appraised the prodigy who had managed to rob the Don of the Martillo family.

And when Don Molsa had glanced around, wordlessly asking who look after their newest protégé, Maiza had just as wordlessly nodded back, silently sealing both his fate and that of the blinking child in front of him.

And yet. Yet, despite everything, the bad blood and bad fate hanging above their heads, Maiza cannot help thinking that he has done well; cannot help, as Firo experimentally twirls his hat in the mirror, allowing himself to be proud.

He knew, of course, that part of it was because of Gretto, Gretto and Firo's resemblance to the little brother Maiza had loved and lost – and he knew, too, that is was unhealthy, was dwelling in the past and unfair to Firo, who should not expected be expected replace a boy he had never known – and yet, it was so hard not to. Firo was, after all, so much like Gretto – the boy Gretto was and the man he could have been, kind-hearted for all his prowess in weapons, brave to recklessness, and so openly loyal to his friends Maiza knew it would one day be the end of him (for that is how it had before, that is how it had been with Gretto) – and so it hurt, hurt to see Firo bloodied after coming home from the streets; hurt to see the confidence in his eyes as he assures Maiza he would be fine, it wasn't that dangerous and he could do it; hurts to see him now, pledging to kill and be killed for the sake of the Martillo family –

Because that was Gretto there, Gretto's blood on the bandages and Gretto's face as Don Molsa handed Firo the knife, wished him luck –and Gretto, Gretto had been brave, Gretto had been kind, Gretto had been loyal and pure-hearted and good, and look at what had happened to him–

But Firo was not Gretto, and it is a fact Maiza is vividly reminded of as his knife slashes through cloth and skin.

And as the blood momentarily flashes red out onto his wrist, Maiza cannot help but be glad that Firo has not taken after Gretto in this.

1931.

The first time they meet, she is helping Szilard to find a man, to kill a man; the second time, it is the same, except that the first manis already dead, and so is another, two more people she had killed since last seeing him, two more lives to add to the blood blood blood on her hands –

The third time they meet, it should be impossible, his blood should on her hands too (but it is not); the third time they meet, it should be their last, she should die right then and there (but she does not); the third time they meet, it should not happen, should not be possible – now with the full knowledge of what she has done, he should be disgusted, should turn away in revulsion at the men she has killed –

But he does not.

Instead, he smiles, reaches out a hand to help her up, and asks her name.

And things become very, very strange from there on.

He lets her live in his flat, afterwards; she, with no better place to go now that Szilard was dead, accepts, moves into the spare bedroom next to his, eliciting a smirking string of comments from Randy and Pecho that make Firo flush furiously in their presence and which Ennis cannot, even after a year after Szilard's death, quite understand.

Despite the teasing and his general flightiness around her (though Ennis thinks that might be more her fault, as Firo is rarely ill at ease around others; perhaps it was the way she acted, something about the emotional responses Szilard had failed to program in her), however, Firo takes good care of her, buying her anything he sees her gaze linger upon, borrowing books and newspapers from the library which he never touches but which she devours within days, and taking her out to dinner on the nights when he gets home early enough to do so. All in all, he was nothing but kind to her, far more generous (so Randy would have said) than a mere friend would be –

And Ennis, Ennis doesn't know that, doesn't know it like she doesn't know so many things, like what to give on birthdays or how to respond to Kate's cheerful demands about when they could have a shopping trip together or love, that so bandied-around word used in so many situations (again, all of it Szilard's fault), but she does know that Randy was right – that Firo is far too kind to her than a friend would be, and far, far more so than she deserves.

Isaac and Miria, they are friends, and their kindness, their friendship is easier to accept than Firo's – Firo, who knows everything, who has seen her crimes and the things she has done, the men she has killed and the people she has hurt, and still smiles at her yet, stays by her yet when she deserves none of it –

("We're family," he tells her when she asks, seeming puzzled that she needs to even ask, "that's why" –)

Family.

Friend is still a new word to her, even more so family, but someday – someday, she thinks, as Firo hands her a plate to dry and smiles at her – she hopes she can understand them, can be worthy of them.

1933.

Few things surprise him, these days – after living for two hundred years, surprise becomes an dulled thing, something like the blade of a knife after long use (and oh, he would know about knives) – but even after all the years, one thing that still surprises him, that has never stopped surprised him, is how easily people trust. Isaac and Miria, barely hours after meeting him; Maiza, years of seeing the immortals kill and betray each other; all those people in the dining car, slumping in relief mere minutes after they had been held at gunpoint – for them, for the rest of humanity, trust was such an effortless thing, such an easy thing –

But not for him. And, that, too, was understandable: when you have been betrayed for two hundred years, when you have been tortured for two hundred years, tied and burnt and bled by someone you thought of as a brother, someone you trusted – well, after two hundred years of that,trust becomes something foreign, a word that tastes strange and off on the tongue, like smoke or the sour aftertaste of cheap chocolate.

So no one is more surprised than Czeslaw Meyer at the ease with which, barely two weeks after meeting them, he takes Ennis's hand, letting Firo pat him on the head with barely a flinch, the ease with which he adjusts, fitting easily into their camorra-and-crime filled world as though he had been born into it, bantering with Randy and helping Isaac and Miria in their pranks – the ease, in short, with which he trusts them.

They are, after all, hardly the ideal family unit; with a Camorra executive, a homunculus, and an immortal child both older and more cynical than both of his caretakers, dysfunctional would be generous.

And yet, somehow, it works.

Firo works during the day, overseeing the casinos and doing what he delicately calls "camorra business," as though after two hundred years Czes was still in need of sheltering; Ennis, though Firo repeats multiple times that she needn't, stays back most days, more to keep Czes company than for any want of housekeeping, and together they buy the groceries, Ennis venturing into the bloody butcher's racks while Czes helps select the best apples and freshest herbs; Firo, simultaneously too chivalrous and insistent on gender equality (and frankly, love-struck) to let Ennis do it, cooks; and after dinner, when the dishes are washed and if none of them are too busy, they go out, linger by the cafes or visit the bakeries, where the more motherly types will generally give Czes an extra cookie if he smile extra-large for them – immortal pre-pubescence, despite its many and myriad downfalls, had its uses, too.

And sometimes, between wanderings to the Alveare and visits to the Gandors' hall, both of where Firo is mercilessly teased, they end up by dock, Lady Liberty standing across the water while they stand there, an absurd group among the milling sailors and tourists – like characters in some surrealist play, playing at family.

(but sometimes, as they stand there, Ennis holding one of Czes's hands and Firo the other, the salt breezes blowing coolness and spray into their faces – sometimes, in twilight's tricky light, the muted pinks and darkened purples of nearly nightfall almost illusory, Czes almost forgets about that, almost thinks that they are)

1934.

There had been a moment, in 1922, when Firo could have chosen to turn left instead of continuing forward, gone down Third Street instead of Washington, met some strolling parvenu or idling millionaire instead of the Don of the Martillo camorra –

And there had been a moment, in 1923, when Luck Gandor could have chosen not to knock, could have chosen instead to stay home, locked himself into his room and brooded over turf scuffles and newly-risen rivals –

And another moment, in 1930, when Maiza could have chosen not to stop Firo, hold back the boy who was like his lost brother instead of letting him run towards the sight of smoke and danger –

And Ennis, 1930 and barely hours later, could have chosen to obey, do what she had been created and raised to do – could have done it, simply run the knife through Isaac and Miria's necks instead of doing what she did, turning around and plunging the blade through Szilard's back –

And Czes, 1931 and lying on the top of the train that had so quickly become a living nightmare, could have chosen to simply sit up, reach up across those few inches and press a hand to Isaac's worried face –

But Firo hadn't, and Luck hadn't, and neither had Maiza or Ennis or Czes, and in the end, it had been alright. Blown by chance wind and carried by gasping car and screaming train, they had found each other – the orphan boy, the cold prodigy, the hollow girl, the two weary immortals – fragmented shards of loss and longing, broken pieces [of their own] half-finished stories, they had fit together, met at frayed edges and bloody corners to form something greater, something larger and better than they dared to hope for –

Amidst a dusty backdrop of blood and bullets, they had made their choices and their choices made had them, five half-healing figures finding each other and standing together in the light of the dying sun.