A/N: ^_^ First chapter, enjoy!

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There was blood everywhere. On the walls, the floor, even the ceiling. Men were strewn across the floor in grotesque heaps of twisted and broken limps. Bullets and bullet holes painted this battlefield in varying designs of deadly accuracy and desperately failed attempts of survival.

In the middle of this display of butchery stood three men clad in black coats. They walked from corpse to corpse, placing their arms across their chests and pennies over their closed eyes.

One man was lying in the debris of a wooden crate near the loading door. His legs were broken badly, he could see the bones sticking out of one, and his right arm was twisted out of its socket and underneath him. The pain was unbearable. Each breath was a knife to his chest, and everything around him had a sick red tinge to it. He gazed upward, begging God to put him out of his misery, to release him from the pain.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement. Weakly he turned his head. There, in the shadows, not three feet from him, cowering behind a forklift was a man. His hair was very short, it stuck up all over the place, and his wide brown eyes were wet with fear. The frightened man looked at the dying one for just a moment.

Help me. Please, help me.

The dying man pleaded with his eyes and in his mind. His mouth was so full of blood; he could barely swallow, or draw a breath to spit it out.

The frightened man cringed, looked away and shook his head. Desperate the dying man tried to reach for him, his arm barely twitched.

For the love of God, HELP ME!

Shaking the frightened man clutched his head. It was too much; everything had gone so wrong so fast. Worst of all no one knew how. No one had snitched. How had they found them?

Tears were leaking out of the frightened man's eyes as he looked around for his chance to escape. The three dark men were all poised above different bodies; they hadn't noticed the frightened one, cowering in the dark. This was his chance. Choking back a sob the frightened man gave the dying man one last look and ran for his life out the door.

The three men turned at the sound of frantic feet hitting pavement. One ran to the door, fired a shot, but it was too late. The frightened man had gotten away.

The dying man gurgled blood, his scream of rage, and his fingers on his good hand curled into a fist. The coward had ran. He'd left him here, offered no help; he'd betrayed them all to save himself. The dying man stared at the tin ceiling, begging God to end his suffering.

One of the dark men approached and stood over him. He raised his pistol to the dying man's chest. This was it, his salvation. He took a deep breath.

The dying man watched then in disbelief when the dark man paused as if to reconsider and then leaned in close. He could see the dark man's face, his clear sharp blue eyes. They looked deep into his soul, saw the corruption there and he suddenly felt as if he was being burned alive.

The dark man whispered something to him. A question. The dying man would have remained silent, even under further torture, for any other question. But not this one. It filled him with quiet vindication as he listened. This was not a question he would die for. He would gladly tell this dark man what he wanted.

Sucking in a rattling breath he whispered, "Peter Ricconi."

Blood trickled down his lips, his body was on fire. Each breath seemed to take an eternity and ripped at his chest. Where was his salvation, who could end this burning torture? End this agony?

The dying man looked up into the fierce blue eyes of the dark man. The pistol was directly over his failing heart, it would be quick, it would be merciful.

He stared up at this man. His lips moved, he was saying something. The dying man's eyes caught sight of the rough cross dangling around the dark man's neck. Yes, God had heard him; God had sent someone to help him escape the pain.

"…Spiritu Sancti…"

The dying man heard these cleansing, calming words and knew that God hadn't just sent him a man to end his suffering. He'd sent him a saint.

Three blocks away Peter heard the shot echo back to him from the warehouse as he ran for his life in the muddy back alleys of Chicago.

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