Disclaimer: Man, I wish I owned the boys but alas my life is a tragedy, so I don't. But Troy Duffy does. Lucky bastard. But Ms. Carmela Buonanno is mine.
Summary: The MacManus brothers had long ago decided to bring their own brand of justice to the scums on the street. They were prepared to deal with the violence that came with their roles as vigilantes but are they prepared to handle the justice that is ready to be brought to them?
Chapter 1: Iustitia omni auro carior
It is mine to avenge; I will repay. In due time their foot will slip; their day of disaster is near and their doom rushes upon them." Deuteronomy 32:35
Penn Station was a vast chamber filled with people, smell, and an excess of noise. Carmela Buonanno strode around groups of people impatiently awaiting their own trains as she eagerly searched for hers. Today, she was saying goodbye to beautiful New York City and making her journey back to Boston.
Millions had flocked to the restless city for a variety of reasons- love, work, art, excitement. What led Carmela here was simply anonymity. Aside from family, few had known Carmela to be the daughter of the late crime boss, "Papa Joe" Yakavetta. "Papa Joe" was the leader of South Boston's Italian Mafia. He was murdered in a courthouse by the notorious trio known as 'The Saints.' Carmela made the discovery of her father's gruesome death on the five o'clock news. The details were still vivid memories seared into her brain. She recalled a report stating that 'The Saints' had forced everyone in the room to watch as they pumped two bullets into her father's head. Carmela could not fathom why her father had been slaughtered before an audience. What had he done to deserve this? Her mother, Assunta, was a silent spectator and never offered answers. No explanations, only words of platitudes that lent an artificial solace to her child. Assunta quickly packed up their lives in Boston and headed back to her mother's apartment in Brooklyn. The hurried departure left only a confused child in its wake.
Eight years had passed since his murder and his absence still weighed heavily on Carmela's heart. She was no longer a child and had come to terms with the Yakavetta history. To the public, Yakavetta was a ruthless, violent, cutthroat crime boss. While all that may have been true, Carmela had never bared witness to the monstrous side of her father. Her best memories of him were always filled with secretive smiles and small gifts. Every day before dinner, he would enter her room quietly and hand her a small brown bag filled with candies. "For you, Carmelita," he always whispered, holding his index finger to his lips. His eyes twinkled during these moments as if he were a child himself getting away with something naughty. She especially yearned for him during the holidays. After several glasses of wine her father's voice would raise a few octaves and his rough exterior would melt away. He became generous with his affections; hugging her mother tightly, whispering Italian words of romance in her ear. Her mother would swat him away gently only to pull him close again and kiss his forehead. He would then turn to Carmela, hoisting her onto his knee, and sing old songs of heartbreak. Together they sang the heartfelt ballads in unison until Carmela grew tired in his arms eventually falling asleep.
Carmela felt a dull ache begin in her chest and work its way down to the pit of her stomach. Oh papa. I wish you were here. I wish I didn't have to do this. Her mother had once told her the anger and pain would pass with time. She was wrong. Neither the pain nor the anger had subdued as she aged. The facts and the indifference that shrouded his death further fueled her rage. No, Yakavetta was not a noble man in every definition, perhaps far from it. However, he was still a man with a wife and child. Had she not fallen into the category of victims with his death? The Boston police had pushed their vow to uphold justice aside and protected these murderers. They had allowed for their escape and botched the investigation. They could now rest at night knowing another criminal lay dead. She wondered had any one of those police officers lost sleep over her. Or was she just a sacrifice for the greater good? The absurdity of "The Saints" had almost made her gag. They brought "justice" in the name of God. How perfectly noble of them! Carmela wished they could explain that to her twelve year old self. How noble would they feel then, she questioned bitterly. Forcefully they had taken justice into their own hands forgetting the innocent they claimed to protect were the same they had violated. While these vigilantes
had allowed many to rest easy at night, 'The Saints' lurked in the darkness awaiting her in sleep, beckoning her to keep her eyes open for the savagery.
Nunc aut numquam
In Penn Station began the journey to purge the nightmares and rectify the balance of justice. The journey could not simply end when her feet made contact with Boston's concrete. The roles were now being reversed. 'The Saints' were to feel the wrath of justice they showed upon their prey. Carmela would show them the identical mercy they had bestowed on her beloved papa. Bullet for bullet. She was uncertain of how she would locate her father's killers but she would continue her path for revenge until it led to the blood of the guilty on her hands. No law or covenant made with God could offer protection for the fury she had withheld for many years. Her only wish was to bring upon them their own personal Armageddon. She wanted the taste of retribution and to watch them surrender to her. In their last hours, she would become their god and they would cry woefully in regret. Any other way would not befit the crime. After all, she was her father's daughter.
A/N: A short beginning, however, the following chapters will be longer.