Prologue: Only Remains the Unforgiven
Despite the crispness of his suit and the perfect tailoring, the young man inside wasn't far out of high school. Against his smooth pale skin, his black hair barely moved in the cool, autumn wind. It was cold enough for some to be in winter jackets, yet he made no motion to suggest that he even felt it, for he wore a black, thin, linen cape above the suit, like that of a mysterious black magic devotee returning from his ever so mysterious practices.
On his feet were shiny black shoes that everyone in town couldn't imagine the guy polishing himself. At his side was a case in a fine brown leather. His aura presented a guy they could befriend and betray, just to gain knowledge of what he possessed, and what his story was. Not hard. Kids like that were always alone and bored. As for the betrayal part, no one saw a problem with that. They hated him already. But they also feared him, not knowing what he was capable of, if anything. But to some, definitely something.
Angelo Lagusa pulled the black hood over his saturated form as he sauntered in the soft rain, small pellets of water spitting on his hands as the remainder of the drops quench the scattered muddy puddles decorating the once, bone dry back roads. Through one pools of rainwater, the familiar flash of police sirens are brought to his attention. Angelo manages to lift his head up just a bit, raindrops speckling his cheeks as he parts his lips, breathing out a breath of warm fog. He quickens his pace as he climbs the wooden stairs, who were loudly creaking in complaint as a pair of feet came stepping on the ageing steps, though barely heard over the thundering storm. Upon reaching the second floor, his floor, Angelo fumbles in his long black pant pockets, pulling out his dulled room key as he turned his back to the scene outside his apartment, suddenly disinterested in the chaos and shouting on the other side of the fence.
A pair of eyes glanced his direction from afar. Angelo could feel them the moment they had spotted him. Slowly, he turned his head. It was a woman. Her eyes sparkled like the storm clouds above. Clouds of grey and bright water blue threatened floods and fury while pupils dilated in a soft passion, her long eyelashes catching some raindrops. Angelo took another look over her.
Against her black woolen jacket, the woman's blond hair was almost white. It fell in a straight line midway down her back, absolutely flat and shining, even in the cool rain. When she turned her massive black umbrella her head moved with her like a liquid. Shorter strands of bangs hung above her eyes, parted with a purple bobby pin. Before Angelo had time to look at the rest of her body, she quickly covered her eyes, possibly shyly, with the umbrella and slowly started departing past the rushing police officers and crime reporters, black heels barely faltering in the wet muddy path.
Who was she?
Angelo shook his head, visibly distraught, and spun back around, unlocking his door and quickly retreated indoors. The door was scratched and dented with chipped brown varnish. It had a brass colored lock and a door knob dulled with age and greasy fingermarks. The brass safety chain dangled at the side of the door, a pointless gesture in a neighborhood like this, but Angelo shut his door, immediately locking and safety chaining it as well.
Kicking his semi-formal shoes off and to the side in a small heap at the doorway, Angelo proceeded to his bed, a couple feet from the doorway, with the briefcase in hand. He sat down on the edge of the bed, opening the brown leather case carefully, and slowly opened the top.
Inside was a small silver handgun.
"Perfect." Angelo's voice was deep. "This will work perfectly." Something flashed beneath the surface of his normally hardened expression. The emotion disappeared before he could even identify it, like reaching for an escaped balloon; the string dangling so tantalizingly close, but the wind pushes it away and it's forever lost.