Title: The Devil We Know

Summary: Christine Daae is the daughter of a recently deceased mafia boss. Suddenly, she finds herself toted as an up and coming gang leader, learning from the Phantom, a man who is feared by even the most powerful in the field as a notorious hit man. Will Christine find the strength to carve her own path, disregarding both darkness and light? Raoul's in it too. I guess.

Author's Note: Yeah, I've read some of the Phantom of the Opera book, but mostly I'm running on the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical and the super fun movie version with Gerald Butler and girl-face as Christine (I don't even know her name…) I didn't know if someone had already written a story like this about them, so I went for it.

Disclaimer: Phantom isn't copywritten any more, is it? I don't know. But the book belongs to Leroux and the musical belongs to Andrew Lloyd Webber. Regardless, Erik, Christine, and Raoul aren't my original characters.

Chapter One: It starts with death.

Through her silent tears, Christine saw clearly the masses of people huddled around the cold, gray cemetery. Most had their heads were bowed respectfully. All of the attendees wore black suits in strict, clean fashions. The wealthiest wore heavy, expensive overcoats over their mourning attire.

Christine gulped back a sob that threatened to escape her. The repressed cry burnt in her throat, a pain that stuck fast. Her tears spilled noiseless down her face as she turned her head to see the rich, mahogany coffin next to her. A wreath of blood red roses leaned against the coffin and a simple portrait of her father sat on display.

The priest droned on about Heaven, God, and all things meant to comfort those still shackled to their Earthly bodies. She wasn't worried about her father's soul. If there was a Heaven, he was already there peering down at her tear streaked face with an apologetic smile on his face. That didn't make it any less painful to accept that she was truly alone in the world now.

Christine tried to focus on the priest's words, but they evaded her like gnats on a hot summer day. Sighing, she cast a doleful glance toward the overcast sky, but her eyes caught movement halfway and stopped.

A small hill stood overlooking the cemetery a short distance away from her father's grave. The hill was covered in dark green grass with a tall tree planted firmly in the ground reaching upwards with its orange, red, and yellow leaves. An expertly wrought, metal and wood bench rested under the tree. There was a lone man standing on that hill and he was staring straight back at her.

The intensity of the stranger's stare brought a fierce blush to her cheeks and nose. If her face was not already raw red from all the crying, others would have noticed. More than his stare, the bone white mask that concealed the right half of his face fascinated her and kept her attention from drifting.

Even at this distance, she could tell he had black hair trimmed neatly and styled back from his face. The visible half of his face was pale and handsome in a harsh sort of way. Maybe it was the set of his lips, that thin, slightly downward arch his mouth made while holding her gaze.

A touch on her shoulder made her jolt in place and whirl around. Her sudden action surprised the priest trying to gain her attention. "Miss Daae? Would you like to say a few words?"

Shocked that she had been caught daydreaming at her own father's funeral, Christine bowed her head and walked dutifully toward the podium. Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced back to the hill only to find it empty and serene on the horizon.

The rest of the funeral was all a blur of sadness as her tears coursed fresh from her eyes when they lowered the coffin down into the ground. It was too final, a decisive period at the end of her father's sentence. There was no going back to the life she knew only months before.

The reception following the funeral was held in her father's large home, now hers. She waited in the living room next to the door, back straight as she greeted her guests and thanked them for their sympathetic remarks. As some of her guests began to drink themselves stupid, Christine noticed the sheer number of people present was absurd. It was standing room only throughout the large house.

This isn't right. My father was always a shy, polite man. How would he know this many people? Christine pondered, searching the faces of those nearest to her in hopes that she would catch a glimpse of someone she knew.

Everyone was a stranger. Suddenly, a man stumbled into her, knocking her off balance. His drink splashed onto her conservative, black dress and the stink of wine clung to the fabric immediately.

Sighing heavily, she stepped back to avoid being hit by the man's large, unruly hand motions. Soon she was pressed into the wall uncomfortably. Just as she opened her mouth to tell him to move, he laughed and elbowed a nearby friend.

"Well, Mister Daae was a good man, no one can deny that! Too good for his line of work. It's better this way, at least he died peacefully in his bed and not by a stray bullet from a hit man!" The man chuckled, obviously unable to gauge his own voice level.

Christine stiffened behind him as if he had reached out and slapped her hard across the face. "Sir."

But the man continued, his hearing and judgment impaired by alcohol, though he looked the type to normally voice his opinions regardless of who he was around. "Now, don't get me wrong! Loved that man like he was a father. Or somethin'. But you all heard the rumors same as the next person! There was a war brewing. He'd have lost his life soon enough anyway."

Christine's hands curled into fists as her face paled. What was this man talking about? What war? Her father was a simple man, though wealthy enough to take care of her. She never asked what he did for a living. Since he was gone so much, she assumed he was a businessman.

"Ever since his wife died, Daae lost the guts to rule-"

"SIR!" Christine repeated, interrupting the rude man's speech. He turned, looking at her as if surprised she was in her own home. "Whatever problems you had with my father, now is not the time to discuss them. Unless you show the proper respect, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Is this an order from the boss's little girl?" he asked in a half-mocking tone. Christine's mind went blank, unable to formulate a basic reply, let alone a biting come-back. He reached out and toyed with a strand of her long, curly brown hair as he murmured, "It's hard to respect an order from someone like you. Maybe if you provided some incentive?"

Christine could hardly believe her ears. He was so close she was breathing in the very air he expelled from his mouth. The stink of alcohol, sweat, and aftershave mingled together in a sickly sweet concoction that made her head reel.

Without warning, the front door swung open abruptly, sending the people congregating near it scattering to avoid being hit. In stepped the same man from earlier, his heavy, black trenchcoat whirling around his calves as he entered. It must have been the wind from outside that sent a chill down Christine's back as she watched the man stride toward them across the room.

"Buquet, you have horrible manners," the man's voice was smooth and deep despite his words. There was a lilt of amusement to his tone underneath the calm, as if he saw the humor in a dark situation no one else could.

People scooted back out of the man's path as he walked, the buzzing voices dying to silence in his presence. Christine's eyes widened as the imposing figure approached with a swift, deadly pace. Time slowed to a crawl as his black gloved hand darted out to wrap around her upper arm and twirl her into the safely of his coat. Her long hair and skirt flowed around her body to the movement and she had to press her hands to his chest to steady herself.

Then he raised his other arm straight and confidently shot Buquet between the eyes with a 9 millimeter, semi-automatic pistol. Wedged securely beneath his arm, Christine could only think of how quiet the gunshot was. She always assumed they were louder. Also, all that red would be hell to get off her carpet and wall.

"PHANTOM!" Someone shrieked at the top of their lungs. Chaos exploded as the guests all ran for the front door, screaming and tripping over their feet. The man holding her between his arm and side laughed maniacally while replacing his sleek, black metal pistol back into his holster strapped to his back under his trench coat.

The only ones left in the house were Christine, this masked maniac, Buquet's dead body bleeding all over her poor carpet, and someone who had been injured during the stampede. The masked man placed a gentle hand on her head before extracting her from the safety of his arm. He walked over to where the man who had tripped was crawling toward the front door. He reached down and caught the squirming man by his suit collar without slowing his step, dragging him to the front door.

"Aren't mass suicide attempts just the worst?" the masked man asked the poor person he was pulling to the door. By the light tone of his voice, it would be hard to tell he'd just killed a man. "Out you go. Don't come back or I'll kill you."

He tossed the man with the twisted ankle out on the lawn before turning on his heel to reenter the house. The front door slammed shut inches in front of his face. Sighing, he knocked once. The lock clicked shut in reply. He knocked again, louder. "Miss Daae? Is there a reason you locked me outside?"

"G-go away!" Christine stammered from inside, her back pressed against the wood of the door. "I'm calling the police!"

"Miss Daae…" his voice sounded tired and clipped. He gestured with his hands as if to shoo something away. "Fine, go get the phone to call the police. Hurry, I might do something crazy again."

Christine glared at the door, irritated by this insane man ordering her around, before dashing into the kitchen to grab the wireless phone. She ran back to the door with the phone only to find it swinging open harmlessly. Standing next to the door was the same masked man, holstering his gun on his back again. "Funny thing about locks. They lose to guns."

Christine's jaw dropped open in shock. "You SHOT my door?"

His visible, left eyebrow rose on his forehead at her words. "Yes. I also shot that man over there. But you knew that."

Her face flushed red as her eyes narrowed on him. His gaze fell to the object in her hand. "Oh. The phone. Excellent. I was looking for one."

As he reached out to take the phone from her, she jumped back. He remained leaning slightly forward with his hand open as if waiting for her to relinquish the phone. She ran for the front door. Moving with a grace and speed that caught her off guard, the man stepped directly into her path, blocking her escape. She jerked to a halt a foot away from him as he peered down at her through dark, glittering eyes.

Desperate, she lunged to the left, trying to get around him. He took one step to the side, blocking her easily. He cocked his head to the side as if to question her with his expression. Growing irritated, she feinted to the right, running left instead, but he reached his arms out and blocked both ways easily. That annoying, condescending look of questioning was still on his face.

A choked cry of rage erupted from her clenched teeth as she stepped back out of reach and hurled the phone at his head. Surprised, he dodged the airborne phone as it sailed an inch away from his skull. He gave her a harassed look as he turned to face her after watching the phone smash against the walkway outside. He grabbed her by the upper arms and gave her a small shake. "Don't throw things at people with guns! You will just upset them. Did you not just see me kill a man?"

Christine flinched at the harsh tone and the whipping movement. The man dropped his hands, exhaling loudly. "Right. Remember that next time. Go get your things."

Christine remained motionless in place, confused and scared of the man in black who was now eyeing the abused door, hand on his chin in thought. He tried to shut the door, but it just swung slowly back open, the latch and doorknob shot all to hell. Sighing, he shook his head, caught a glimpse of Christine out of the corner of his eyes and frowned at her. "What? Your things! Now! Or would you rather stay here and explain yourself to the police? I'm sure someone from your mourning party has already called them."

Christine squinted up at him, disorientated by the turn of events. "Why would I want to go with YOU?"

"BECAUSE," he replied, his tone sharp and grating. "Since the death of your father, you are left without any protection against a world full of wolves and cutthroats. Though the police are the least of your problems, no doubt someone will seek to harm you in the immediate future."

At her lost, innocent expression, his tone softened slightly. "Your parents had many enemies."

"Who was my father? I thought I knew him. And who are you?" she demanded weakly.

"Too late for packing. We'll have to get you some clothes to change into later." The man looked toward the front door sharply and a distant siren broke through the silence outside. He shook his head once, grabbing her by the forearm and tugging her along behind him as he walked out the door. Parked in her driveway was an old fashioned, 1939 Buick Roadmaster, tuned and painted to look as new as the day it was purchased.

He unlocked the passenger door and held the door open for her to slide in. She stared at him as if he were insane. The sirens grew louder. Nearer. Despite the pressure, he sent her a calm, knowing smile as he leaned close to whisper into her ear, "I have your answers, little one. Your father trusted me."

Shocked at the rush of self-awareness she felt standing so close to him, Christine gasped and stepped back. She tried to hide her awkward movement by hastily climbing into the car. Shutting the door firmly, he strode around to the other side and slid into the driver's seat. As she fumbled with the old fashioned seatbelt, he put the key in the ignition and the car roared to life under his hands.

He ran his gloved hand along the dash lovingly before backing out of the drive way and speeding down the road. Christine watched him curiously for a moment, the way his grip gentled on touching the wheel. The way he held his gun was stronger, a firm hold, decisive. Which reminded her: "Why didn't I hear you shoot the door?"

Eyeing her sidelong, he shook his head. "You have so much to learn. You don't even have a basic knowledge of firearms."

"Well, sorry," she muttered under her breath, crossing her arms. "We can't all be crazy masked men."

This comment caught him by surprise, he sat up straighter in his seat, the tension in his shoulders obvious. "Do not call me that."

"What should I call you?"

"Erik."

"Fine, Erik. I'm Christine. How did you know my father? And what's going on?"

A lopsided smile fought his control, trying to spread across his lips. She was eager, curious, and full of questions. Good. Because she had a lot to learn if she wanted to survive in the world her father and mother had thrust her into. "Soon enough, Miss Daae. Once I have you safe from those who wish to harm you, I will answer you questions. Is that fair to you?"

Her only reply was to turn away from him slightly and prop her elbow up on the window frame of the door. She stared out at the city scenery whooshing passed them, an impatient look on her face. Erik sighed and forced his attention back to the road, trying to ignore the pouting expression Christine cast his way every few minutes.

It was gonna be a long drive to The Opera House.