This is my first fanfic, so constructive criticism is welcome. Thank you to Anjelle for betaing and the wonderful advice!

Disclaimer: I do not own One Piece. Considering my lack of drawing skills rivals Luffy's, this is a very good thing.

Marco jumped in his seat as the door to his office suddenly flew open. Thatch burst into the room, clutching a disorganized mass of papers in his hands.

"I'm..." Thatch tossed the lot onto Marco's previously perfectly sorted desk, breathing heavily, "not late..." he flopped into the armchair in front of Marco's desk, "this month!" He looked ridiculously proud of himself for turning them in two minutes before they were nominally due.

"I think I prefer it when you are late, yoi." Marco looked at his desk in resigned dismay, "At least then you can only mess up your own accounts."

Thatch pouted. "You're just never happy, are you? You're such a wet blanket*. Who needs paperwork, anyway?"

"Just be glad you don't have to oversee the actual business side of your speakeasies*. They'd go under in no time."

"Please, I'd do great!"

"You can't even manage to neatly pass along the inventory and accounting on time."

Thatch opened his mouth to protest.

"Neatly." Marco pointedly looked at the disaster zone that was now his desk. Thatch wisely snapped his mouth shut, though he didn't bother to feign guilt.

"Fine, fine. I'll leave you to it then." He grinned at Marco and got up from his sprawl nonchalantly, apparently recovered from his sprint, and thankfully left to go make trouble elsewhere.

Maro sighed in relief and turned to straightening up his desk. Today he had found it harder than usual to concentrate on the numbers in front of him, but they had to be done by the time he had to change for the evening's celebration. Marco had been trusted by Pops to watch over his family's finances, and he would do nothing to betray that trust, no matter how seemingly insignificant.

He picked up the photograph that had fallen down in the onslaught of creased papers and smiled. It was their first family portrait. Pops had insisted, even though it was just the two of them, and they could really use the money for more essential things.

Like most of his brothers, Marco had grown up running in childrens' gangs in the less savory parts of town. It was common enough for children of immigrants to end up on the streets, and most gangsters had similar pasts.

One cold, winter night, Marco had been walking back to his hovel with a less-than-stellar take. He remembered that he'd been worried because his coal supply was low, and the weather had been bitterly cold, even for Chicago.

Marco had refused to join any major gang, preferring a harder life to being disposable grunt. His resolve had been wavering that winter though. Anything to keep from freezing to death.

A sudden pop and a burst of red-hot pain shooting through his shoulder had shattered his reveries. Marco had fallen back from the force of the shot and landed with a splash in the muddy slush that covered the road. The indeterminately colored slush grew darker with blood in the dim light from the sparse street lamps.

And that was how his life would have ended, if it weren't for Pops-bleeding out slowly in the gutter, with no one to care or notice.

His memories of the night were hazy since, by the time Pops had found him, Marco's vision had been already blurring out, and his sense of the world had receded. He had be conscious only of overwhelming cold and numbness. When the large man had stanched the blood oozing out of his wound and lifted him up, Marco's only impression was of welcome warmth, before his consciousness faded, and he slid into oblivion.

He'd come to in an unfamiliar room, remarkable only in its miniscule size and dingyness . Newgate had drawn his eyes immediately, being the only thing of interest. He had sat in an old, spindly wooden chair which had looked like it was going to give out any second under the man's weight, the only piece of furniture besides the bed and a small table.

"Good morning, son. Glad to see you're finally up!"

Marco had jumped at the sudden greeting, not having noticed his perusal of the room was being observed. He'd looked warily at the giant man without replying. Newgate had smirked knowingly at him and had poured him a glass of water from the pitcher at the bedside table. Marco had taken it, but looked at it suspiciously without drinking.

Whitebeard laughed robustly, causing Marco to cringe as the sound reverberated in his aching head. Still, he had to fight the urge to smile; even then, Pops' laugh had been contagious.

"You must be thirsty, brat. You've been out for four days with a fever. Drink. If I wanted you dead, it would have been easier to leave you in the gutter."

"Why-" Marco barely managed to croak the word out before his voice failed him. He'd given in and drank the water, glaring at the man who had just laughed harder.

"Why'd I pick you up?"

Marco nodded as Whitebeard poured him another cup.

"Fate."

"What kind of reasoning is that?" He'd finally been able to respond, but his voice was still scratchy with disuse.

"My dream has always been to have a family. I'd finally made enough to leave the backstabbing brute that I was working for and set out on my own when I ran into you. My very first son." He had paused, then grinned at Marco, "Fate." His booming laugh once more rang through the room.

Marco smiled to himself, remembering how he had tried to escape the clearly deranged man countless times, with little success. The man had an impressive sense for when he'd make his next escape attempt. Eventually, he'd stopped trying to escape, realizing the futility of trying to change Edward Newgate's mind once it was made up.

It didn't help that, for the first time in a long time, someone had wanted him around, enough to call him family. He'd lost the moment Whitebeard called him 'son' and, though he hadn't noticed its significance at the time, it was almost the first word out of his mouth.

By the time he had been well enough to shed his bandages, he'd started calling the old man 'Pops' and they let fate guide them to the rest of their now very large family. Their gang was fiercely loyal to their boss, since the man had given them all a family, a place to belong when the world had thought they were no more than worthless trash.

Whitebeard's territory was now so large that they had decided to split it into sixteen districts, with the most senior members of the family each running a district. They all had around one hundred subordinates, and the gang ran more like an alliance of gangs these days. With Pops getting up in age, Marco had taken control of most of the day to day affairs, though Pops made all of the big decisions and was still considered the strongest man in the city.

Two years ago a rookie boss came to take Pops' head and claim the title of 'strongest man'. Marco chuckled, remembering how angry and stubborn Ace had been back then. None of them had liked the fiery-tempered man, famous for arson and his ruthless hand-to-hand fighting, but Pops had seen potential in him where none of them could. He'd told Marco that Ace needed a family even more than Marco had.

After one hundred days of thwarted assassination attempts, Ace finally accepted Whitebeard's mark and, shortly afterward, took over the second district and proved Pops was correct. His attitude had changed drastically since he joined the family.

Now, no one would believe that the carefree young man, who constantly played pranks on his older brothers and managed to "accidentally" catch something on fire on a weekly basis, was the same as the defensive, spiteful terror who'd rejected all attempts to befriend him.

Marco looked out the window, hoping to see his youngest brother returning safely, though it was far too early for him to even have started. He supposed he should just take it as a good sign that the whole sky wasn't lit up, signaling that the entire warehouse district was in flames.

It wouldn't be the first time the brat had given him such a scare. He just wished the whole mission wasn't as crucial as it was. The clock chimed, and it finally sank in how late it was already. He only had a few hours before the celebration tonight to clear his desk.

Marco stretched, once more glancing down the street, looking for a familiar figure. He had finished the accounts and still had half an hour before it would be worth going downstairs.

It was still far too early for the freckled man to be heading back, even if everything went smoothly, but he couldn't resist the urge to check one more time. He ran his hand through his already disheveled hair. Though he knew Ace would be fine, his mind kept coming up with horrible scenarios.

It was getting harder to keep his unnecessary protectiveness of the boy in check. Ignoring his feelings for Ace was difficult, but he mostly managed to shove them aside. He needed to do better at ignoring them, though, or Ace was bound to notice.

Marco was startled out of his brooding by his door flying open for the second time.

"You could knock, yoi."

"I did. You didn't answer, so I came in anyway to see what was wrong. Were you really so wrapped up in the accounts that you didn't notice?" Izo sauntered into the room, an intrigued look gracing his perfectly made up face, and settled himself gracefully on one of the armchairs in front of Marco's desk.

Marco's brother and boss of the sixteenth district was all dolled up* for the evening with bright red lipstick and a square necked, kneelength silk dress in pale pink. The back was cut daringly low, exposing his shoulder blades. There was a matching silk rose pinned on one shoulder and a similarly colored headband with long feather in his pinned up hair.

Diamonds sparkled from his throat and ears. Marco couldn't deny the outfit suited the other man; most people passing on the street would think he was just another dame, and a good-looking one at that. However, Izo was the last person he wanted to see him distracted with thoughts of Ace.

There was a reason the man was in charge of gathering intelligence for the family. He could be downright scary. Thatch swore the man could read minds, and Marco found it hard to persuade him that it wasn't true, since he couldn't disregard the notion himself.

"Just concentrating on the accounting." Marco gestured to the paperwork directly in front of him, somehow managing to keep his bland expression even though he was lying through his teeth.

"Bull," Izou casually shot down Marco's hopes of escaping a cross-examination while checking his manicure, "That's the report I gave you this morning."

Well, shit. He could have sworn it was the accounting.

"Wha-" Marco began as his gaze shot to the papers in front of his, wondering how on earth he managed to slip up that badly. The accounting stared back at him. Damn it.

"You didn't even know what was in front of you, hm?" Izo's tone sent shivers down the blond man's spine. He looked far more predatory than Marco was comfortable with. This definitely did not bode well for him.

Once Izo caught wind of a secret, he was nearly impossible to shake until he knew what it was. Not that he'd use the secret against Marco, but he did like to tease his brothers, especially Marco, who so rarely was caught off guard.

"Not to mention, I didn't even give you any reports this morning. Normally, you'd have remembered that I haven't been here at all today. That's quite the distraction."

Before Marco could answer, the other man brushed it off, with a careless wave of his hand. "Nevermind that now, it's not important."

Marco's brows shot up, but again he was given no time to speak.

"Now, as to why I came in the first place: you know how Vista was picked up by the coppers* on an easy run* the other day?"

"Since we're about to have a party in a couple hours to celebrate his safe return, I should think so."

Izo rolled his eyes before his face turned as serious as Marco had ever seen on the normally flippant man. Marco immediately straightened, eyes on the other.

"I-"

He seemed to be at a loss for where to go from there. The silence quickly passed from comfortable to stifling, but Marco couldn't bring himself to interrupt it.

Finally Izo took a deep breath and met Marco's eyes squarely.

"Did anything about his arrest strike you are strange?"

"I hadn't given it much thought beyond that he would be released, yoi."

Izo dropped his gaze, and bit his lower lip, smudging his lipstick.

"Should I have?" Marco finally asked.

"I've looked into it," Izo hesitated then blurted out, "and-there's-no-way-Akainu-could've known-about that-run-if-he's-on-the-level."

"What copper* these days is on the level, Izo?" Marco's attempt to lighten the heavy atmosphere passed unacknowledged outwardly, but Izo seemed to relax a bit.

"Someone still would have had to rat* Vista out. And the only ones who knew anything about the run... were family." He paused again. "I've triple checked."

"I still don't see-" Marco cut off abruptly, and his eyes widened in horrified comprehension, "You think we have a snitch*, yoi."

No wonder it had been so hard to say.

Izo fidgeted with the clasp of his evening bag. The sound echoed through the office, accompanied only by the the ticking of the clock.

Marco tried hard not to simply dismiss the idea out of hand just because they'd never had a snitch before. He'd always thought the whole gang was far too loyal to Pops to even consider such a possibility.

But Izo wouldn't have brought the topic to Marco unless he was sure. Vista had been arrested over a week ago, and, now that Marco thought about it, Izo had been scarce ever since. But still everything in Marco rebelled at the very thought.

He sighed and rubbed his temples.

"We'll talk to Pops after training tomorrow morning." He paused, still trying to wrap his mind around the thought of one of his brothers ratting them out to the police. "It can wait until everyone's together. Meanwhile..."

Marco shook his head, trying to clear it. "Meanwhile, there isn't anything going down before then, so just keep it between us." He exhaled slowly. "And make a list of who had access to the information."

Izo nodded, still grim-faced but looking somewhat relieved to have some direction, and rose from the chair. Just as he was about to leave, he turned back and grinned innocently.

"So, your earlier distraction was because you're carrying a torch* for Ace, right?"

He left before Marco could gather his wits enough to form a semi-coherent response. It didn't matter though. His stunned expression was all the conformation Izo needed.

Ace wiped off his hands and stepped back to admire his handiwork. The warehouse was full of gin and rum, so it wasn't much of a challenge to set up what would be a raging inferno as soon as he lit the match, but he took pride in his work. He wasn't known as Fire Fist Ace for nothing. In this case, it was crucial that no one be able to prove, or even suspect, that it was anything other than an unfortunate accident.

Kaido had been encroaching on their territory lately. He needed to be knocked down a peg, but at the same time they didn't want all out war right now. The warehouse that Ace was about to incinerate held his main supply of booze, and it'd be a huge loss to his business.

Hopefully, it'd keep him too busy to think about messing with them. Kaido's gang was one of only three who'd have the guts to start something with the Whitebeards and had the muscle and firepower to back it up.

Gang wars were far worse for business than a little competition, so the four emperors of Chicago's underworld tended to ignore each other. Kaido was the major exception. He was greedy and more than a little bloodthirsty. It was better for everyone if he had an "internal" supply problem to keep him occupied. Or at least that was what Marco had said.

It had been difficult to sneak in without anyone noticing. There were two guards at every door, plus at least four that he had counted that walked through the place, checking on everything. Ace was not known for his subtlety, so he was inordinately proud that he'd managed to slip in a window undiscovered. His pride was still smarting over Marco's clear disbelief in his abilities when he'd given him this mission.

He'd told Ace to be careful or some variant of the theme at least five times when they'd discussed the mission. Marco had even made Ace go over his plans for the mission with him twice. He hadn't even had any plans, so he'd had to make some up on the spot. Seriously, what kind of plan did you need to burn a building down?

Marco clearly thought he was completely incompetent, but Ace would prove to him that he was more than capable. He was the best arsonist in the city, and no one would ever even suspect this fire was anything other than bad luck. It wasn't rare for warehouses like this to catch fire. More than likely one or more of the guards would be blamed for smoking near something so flammable.

The Flatties* surely wouldn't poke too hard into the fire, since Kaido would want to keep it quiet, and even those on the level would just be glad another speakeasy supply house was gone. Ace smirked arrogantly. Nothing would go wrong. He'd show Marco he could take care of himself and complete his missions as seamlessly as any of his older brothers.

The scent of alcohol was heavy in the air. Ace looked around again, wondering if it was too much. He didn't want it to go too overboard and burn down the city. Or half of the warehouse district like last time. Boy, had Marco been angry. Pops had thought it was hilarious, but the stupid pineapple had no sense of humor.

How was he supposed to have known that the stash of weapons he'd been ordered to burn included dynamite? Ace looked almost accusingly at the barrels filling the large room, as if they, too, might contain something suspicious.

This time he'd made sure to check around. There was nothing particularly incendiary in the warehouses nearby, so if the firefighters knew what they were doing and got here quickly enough, they should be able to keep it contained to this one building. The guards would most likely all be able to escape, unless they tried too hard to put out the blaze.

A fire he started was not one to be put out so easily. Especially not a fire he'd started in a warehouse full of pressurized booze. Ace grinned in anticipation. He always loved watching the flames grow. It was too bad that he'd be far away by the time the inevitable explosions began.

With that thought he lit a match, and held it to the liquor-soaked wooden inner wall of the warehouse. It caught quickly, but Ace stayed for a bit to make sure it wouldn't go out. Not that he thought it would, but he had to prove to Marco he was capable, and the fire sputtering out was definitely not the way to do that.

Ace stepped away from the wall as the flames licked up it and spread to a conveniently-placed barrel. When the barrel caught, he turned to leave. It wouldn't do to be caught now and the fire would quickly draw the guards notice. He duck behind more barrels across the room, darting through the narrow aisle in a crouch.

He wormed his way between the closely-packed barrels towards the nearest guarded door. Just as he got there a shout rang out as the fire was noticed. Both guards immediately left their station to try to put it out. Ace scoffed. Amateurs.

The door creaked slightly as he eased it open but the guards couldn't hear it over the fuss they were making. Ace slipped out of the now unguarded door like a shadow, shutting it just as a whoosh of noise came from the building, letting him know the open cask had caught.

Ace smirked, congratulating himself and settling his beloved hat more firmly on his head as he crept into the shadows. This district was less than savory and most people tended to avoid it after working hours. There was no one around at this time of night, but on the off chance that anyone did see him nearby, it would be obvious the warehouse had not burned by accident. He had something of a reputation, after all. It would be the very declaration of war that Marco and Pops were trying to prevent.

After he walked about a dozen blocks, an explosion rocked the street, and the roar of the fire became audible even from this distance. Sirens shrieked in the distance. Ace let his smirk grow into a grin as he made his escape. A perfect caper*. That would show that stuffy old bird* that he was just as capable as any of the others. Soon he was far enough away to catch a streetcar, and he was home free.

Ace looked down at his rumpled black clothes and grimaced. They reeked of alcohol and smoke. He sighed. Ace would prefer to stay in his comfortably worn work clothes despite the smell, but sadly he had enough time to go home and clean up before making his way to the Moby Dick. His grin faded and a petulant frown surfaced. He really hated suits.

Sorry, this chapter is kind of slow. It will pick up soon XD.

The story is set in Chicago, during the 1920's, when Prohibition was in effect. Since the sale and production of alcohol was illegal during Prohibition, people used to go to bars known as speakeasies, run by gangs that proliferated at that time. Chicago was especially known for its gang activity and the corrupt police and politicians supported them (and were supported by them). I try to be as accurate possible, but I'm sure there are (or will be) anachronisms.

Translations of slang:

Wet blanket* - a killjoy, a boring person, from using wet blankets to put out fires XD

Speakeasy* - Illegal bar (The Moby Dick is one.) pl. speakeasies

Dolled up* - dressed up to go out (usually only for girls)

Copper* - a policeman

Run*- from rum running, smuggling alcohol into the city/country

Rat* - to betray someone to the police

Snitch* - informer

To carry a torch for someone* - have a crush on or be infatuated with someone, especially one-sided

Caper* - like mission or job, with an illegal connotation

Flatties* - Police, from flatfoot

Running on All Sixes* - operating at top speed/efficiency, from the newly invented (then) six cylinder combustion engine for cars

Let me know if I missed anything, or you have any questions.

The next chapter will probably be out in the next two-three weeks, provided anyone is actually interested. Reviews are always appreciated!