Revenge Is a Dish Best Served Cold

by Shyne Po

Trunks is a detective who takes his job way to serious. After his partner is murdered Trunks will give workaholic a new meaning.

Her slumber always started out peacefully enough. There were no fluffy bunnies or rainbows, but there was no blood, either. As soon as her honey-blonde head hit the pillow, she forced herself to sleep, because being awake was a tortuous experience. Tonight was not an exception. Lights out, blankets pulled up tight to block the cooling air that sifted in from the broken window, her slender body curled into a ball, she tried to forget. Here, in this decrepit old bed, she felt at least a small amount of safety.

For a young woman of twenty-five, safety had become her most desired dream. No, she didn't think of money, or her friends, or of a boyfriend. There could be no such fantasies. And as she drifted into sleep, she began to relax, trying not to think of what the next day would bring.

And tonight, the dreams stayed quiet and pastel for three hours, but then her memories began kicking in, and blood seeped into the scenery, gushing, blinding, crimson – and there was just no escaping. She began to toss and roll, flinging her blankets away, only to reach desperately for them seconds later. And like always, figures began emerging out of the gore. Her parents, so beloved, walking toward her, only to have a wall of red crush them. Then Sharpner, her older brother by three years, running toward her, until he too was wiped away.

Tonight she woke without screaming, but that was rare. She almost preferred waking up to the horrendous sounds stealing from her throat, because it meant she was still alive. She sat up and tried to calm the rapid pace of her heart. A sound from the apartment next to hers caused her to jump, and inwardly she scolded herself. She couldn't let things scare her so much. And yet, really, there was no help for that. She was scared, and there was no one to turn to. Well, no one she was willing to endanger, anyway. Uub Majin and Pan Satan, her two best friends, would have done anything necessary to help her, but she refused to let them get involved.

Knowing that, at three AM, there was no more chance for sleep, she got up and turned on the lamp. Movement in the corner of the sparsely-decorated room caused her to jump again, and she saw a large brown rat run across the floor and duck into a low hole in the dingy wall. Shaking off the disgust, she gingerly stepped onto the floor, the wood creaking beneath the stained gray carpet. Gray carpet. Her old bedroom had thick, cushiony burgundy – no. No, she couldn't afford to think about any of her old life. Too many things had happened. Too many people had died.

She crossed to the closet and opened the door, the hinges rusted and groaning in vivid protest. Taking a long-sleeved T shirt from a hangar, she shut the door and bent to retrieve the pair of jeans she'd discarded only three hours before. She dressed quickly, always afraid someone might see her through the holes in the walls. Already painfully thin, her jeans seemed even looser now, and her shirt just hung on her tiny frame. Humph. I could be a runway model with this body, she mused with a scowl. And its not even on purpose that I look like this.

Moving quietly out into the dim hallway, she headed into the living room. Turning on the only light, she sighed, not sure what to do now. There was a couch, which she was sure held mice, and an old rickety rocker that looked ready to collapse should she try to sit in it. There was a scream down in the alley, and she swallowed hard, swallowed to keep the bile from rising any further. She had known coming down this far into the Bronx wouldn't be easy, but this was where she figured they wouldn't be looking for her.

Walking into the small kitchen with it grungy fridge and sink, she searched for some food, and came up with saltines and half a Diet Coke. Better than nothing, and I can't really afford anything more.The thought was sobering. She needed a job, and soon. It sickened her to think of the large bank accounts that were available to her, and yet at the moment, not available. I guess today I'd better find work. My money is running out. She sipped the Diet Coke and leaned against the counter, shivering a little. It was already the end of September, and she knew the air would be turning colder. The broken windows needed to be fixed, if she could find someone to do that. There was a building superintendent, but she had only met him once, just long enough to rent this dismal apartment. She didn't really want to ever meet him again, not liking the way his brown eyes had lingered on each part of her body, his gaze suggesting she could pay her rent with favors, if she so desired.

But then again, I guess I'll have to put up with that, especially considering where I'm at. And it wasn't that the Bronx was all bad – far from it. In fact, Sharpner had brought her down here (well, not here, exactly), several times to the Zoo. She'd always had a thing for animals. But this place, well, it sure wasn't the nicer part of town. She finished the pop, set the can in the small garbage can beneath the sink, and decided she needed to get out. Taking her keys off the counter (like the tinny lock on the door would actually stop anyone from breaking in), she stepped out into the hallway and softly closed the door. The carpet here was brown, but not dark enough to hide the myriad of stains, some of which she was positive were blood.

As she neared the defunct elevators, the doors at the far end of the hall opened, and she stopped, her heart all at once hammering. She had no protection, no means to defend herself. What was I thinking, coming out like this? Especially in the middle of the night? Stupid. Stupid.She was already backing toward her door when the person entered the hallway. A guy. Wow – a reallyhot guy. She blushed instantly at the wayward thought. He walked toward her, eyes on the floor, face shadowed by thick, tousled lavender hair. Is he coming all the way to my end of the hall? I wonder who he is?She knew that she should return to her apartment, since she didn't know his intentions, but there was just something about him, the way he walked, something powerful—

"Oh!" A rat ran across her feet, scurrying toward a large hole in the drywall. The man looked up and stopped, a deep frown on his face. She blushed, knowing he must think her weak. Her eyes met his and her stomach tingled. She'd never seen anyone with eyes that dark blue. They were piercing, and almost fierce. Swallowing, she said softly, "Hi."

He stared at her, taking in the startled expression, worn jeans, and long-sleeved shirt that was way too big. He'd never seen her before (he would have remembered a face like that), and wasn't too happy about seeing her now. She was still watching him, waiting for him to acknowledge her. "Hey." There was no need for any further conversation. He turned to his apartment door and stuck the key in, beginning to turn the lock.

"My name is Marron Chesnut." Her voice was soft and a little wispy, and he frowned again. He could care less who she was. But a glance showed that she was still waiting for him to speak again. He sighed in agitation.

"Trunks Briefs." He opened his door and stepped in, shutting it and leaving her in the hallway alone. He turned on the kitchen light and shrugged out of his brown leather jacket, stretching his sore muscles. He needed a hot shower and a soft bed. He might get a lukewarm shower if he was lucky, but the soft bed was out of the question.

Marron sighed to herself and began to walk back to her apartment. What had she expected? He obviously wanted to be left alone, but she had such a compelling need to talk to someone – I could call Uub. He's always up for late-night talks.But the idea was rapidly banished. I can't let him know where I am. He'd come sweeping in all gallant-like and try to rescue me. And then when they found out where I was, he'd be dead along with me.

She went back into her apartment and turned the lock, then headed back into the bedroom. It was small and the walls always seemed to be closing in on her. But she couldn't afford anything better, and they would never find her here. Not that they weren't the type of people to look here. No, she knew the depths to which they'd go to find and eradicate her. Marron shuddered and climbed into bed, keeping her clothes on. She drew the two blankets, both worn and thin, up to her chin. Perhaps tonight the nightmares were better than her waking thoughts. She closed her eyes and prayed that somehow, things would get better.

Three apartments down, on the same side, Trunks swallowed three Advil and chased them with black, steaming coffee. He went into the living room, spooking a rat, and sat down at a small table where a laptop computer sat quietly humming. Normally he didn't leave it out in the open, but his task had been quick, and he had a vastly-improved lock on his door. Still, he knew he shouldn't leave it unattended again.

As he typed in a personal access code, his thoughts strayed to the thin young blonde in the hallway. She'd been afraid of him, but given where they lived, he couldn't blame her. Marron Chesnut. The first name was vaguely familiar, but not the last. Her face wasn't familiar, either. She had a beautiful face, a face that didn't fit with her surroundings. Trunks typed in a search word and leaned back in his chair. The apartment was shabby and fairly dismal, but perfect for what he needed.

A screen came up and he scowled. The investigation was getting nowhere. Why were they so incompetent? He ran a hand through his already-mussed mane. No, they weren't incompetent. He knew the other detectives at his bureau were working diligently on the case he himself had been actively working until last month. A sharp pain slammed his heart and he instinctively rubbed at his chest. Like that helps. Why haven't they found any other leads? Why haven't they gone after the Colds yet?He already knew the answer to that question, but didn't like it.

He heard screams coming from across the hall and had to force himself to remain seated. It wasn't any of his business, anyway. But fighting his detective instincts was hard. He was trained to help people. That was his job, and he honestly liked doing it. The screams faded and he heard something heavy collide with a wall. Growling beneath his breath, he got up and went into his bedroom. Getting down on one knee, he reached beneath the sagging bed and pulled out a lock box, and opened it. A .357 Magnum lay in a black velvet cloth, and he hefted it, enjoying the feel of the gun. There were three rounds in the chamber, but he knew he wouldn't use them.

He left his apartment and crossed the narrow hall to knock on the door of the apartment across from his. It was several seconds before he heard someone moving around and knocked again, louder, more insistent. "Whatta want?" a decidedly masculine voice yelled, and Trunks knocked again. The door finally swung open, revealing a big man wearing nothing but boxers, an angry scowl on his thick lips. "What?" he asked again, and Trunks tried to peer around him into the apartment. He caught the tiniest glimpse of a woman and his Prussian blues snapped with restrained fury. Just like I thought. Beating up on the fairer sex.

"I'm trying to sleep. Keep it down." Trunks spoke in a cold, low monotone that betrayed none of his emotions. The man's eyes widened, and for a moment Trunks prepared to block a blow he was sure was coming. But then the man laughed, but there was no mirth in it. It was an angry laugh.

"Whatever, man." He made to shut the door, but Trunks stuck his booted foot out. "Hey man, get outta—"

"I meant what I said." Trunks lifted the corner of his long black T shirt just enough for the other man to glimpse the firearm. He paled and stared at Trunks. "Goodnight." The twenty-five year old police detective turned on his heel and strode back to his apartment, hearing the door slam shut behind him. As he reached for the doorknob, he happened to glance to his left, and saw the blonde again. She stood half-way out of her apartment, and had that same deer-in-the-headlights look she'd worn earlier. Trunks' eyes narrowed a little, and she scampered back into her safety zone and shut her door. Trunks sighed and went into his own haven, shutting and locking the door behind him.

The .357 went back, carefully, into the lock box, and he shoved it under the bed. His police-issued nine-millimeter had been taken from him when his Chief had placed him off-duty, for however long it took to get his head back in the game. Or, rather, back the way the Chief wanted it. Trunks knew his mind was fine. He couldn't help the feelings of revenge. They would be with him until Gohan's killer was brought in.

Trunks sat down on the floor, his back against the bed, and rubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes, rubbing the grit in deeper. His mind went back a month earlier, without his bidding, and he could only let the horrible memories play in his head like an old movie reel.

He and Gohan, his partner and good friend, had been called to a crime scene in upper Manhattan, where a young woman had been brutally murdered. It tied into another homicide case they'd been working for several months, and both of them thought this murder would shed light on their case. And it might've, if gunmen hadn't suddenly begun firing on them. Gohan had taken a hollow-nosed bullet to his left lung; there hadn't been any chance of survival, and Trunks couldn't remember ever seeing so much blood.

The gunmen had sValesetered, and so far, no one had been placed at the scene or brought in for Gohan's murder. Trunks took a deep breath and swallowed back the tears that had been hovering near his eyes for the last month. There could be no crying. He shoved himself up from the floor, cursing in his native Japanese. For some reason, that always made him feel better. He went back out to his laptop and shut it down. He had to try and sleep, even if Gohan's death replayed through every dream. Blood. There was always so much blood.

His head on the flattened pillow, his dark blue eyes squeezed shut in a desperate attempt for slumber, Trunks tried to think of something pleasant, something good. An image of Marron came to mind, and he tried to force it away. He had no time for girls, even one as attractive as her. But there was something about her, something inherently sweet, and no doubt, from the look of her, innocent, and he felt like she needed his protection. He scoffed at the idea. It made sense, of course. He was a New York City detective. But even now he could tell it went beyond a sense of duty to a fellow citizen. She didn't look like she belonged here, down in the seedy side of the Bronx. So why was she here, then?

Maybe she's on the run. She killed someone – okay, scratch that. Maybe someone's after her.At that thought, Trunks's Prussian blues opened and flared, and he knew sleep wouldn't come anytime soon if he kept thinking about her. I don't need to get involved. She looks like she comes from money, so I can assume she has rich friends to bail her out of trouble. Still, that name, Marron, I know I've heard it recently—

"Chesnut!" He sat up abruptly. That had to be it – the daughter of the wealthy philanthropist couple who had been murdered three weeks ago in lower Manhattan. But – "She told me her last name was Chesnut," he whispered, and sighed. Sleep was to be completely elusive tonight, it seemed, because now hereally wondered who she was, and why she was in this rat-infested dump.

Before he could decide what to do, his cell rang the "Danger Zone" theme (okay, so he'd wanted to be a fighter pilot when he grew up) and he grabbed it, scowling. "This better be good news, Son," he growled and got off the bed. He listened to his friend, and as he took in the information, all thoughts of Marron fled. "Thanks, Goten. Don't worry, the Chief'll never know I was there. See ya." Trunks hung up the phone and began to grab clothes to change into. A quick shower and he'd be on his way.

Marron, whoever she really was, would have to wait.

In her apartment, Marron too was contemplating the new person she'd met, however briefly. There was no denying she was attracted to him, at least physically. She guessed he must be around six-foot, and he carried himself with pride, like he knew exactly who he was and what he was capable of. And, she mused, he was probably capable of a great many things.

Trunks Briefs. It's an interesting name. Japanese, I'm guessing.She sighed and sat up. The wind was picking up a little; she could see the faded green curtains dancing at the cracked window panes, and involuntarily shuddered. Wrapping one of the blankets around her, she got back out of bed and went into the living room to brave the old rocker.

The disturbance in the apartment down the hall had scared her some; she had never liked yelling, and it made her cringe to hear it. She had come out into the hallway, trying to decide if there was something she could do about it, when Trunks had descended on the apartment and its loud occupant like a lightning strike. Marron chewed her bottom lip for a few moments. She'd seen the glint of something shiny when Trunks had lifted his shirt, and the thought that he carried a gun was both disturbing and, in some odd way she couldn't quite explain, comforting.

Not that he would help her or anything. And she wasn't looking for help. Not from anyone around here, anyway. No, it was best if she pushed Mr. Briefs out of her mind. She had enough problems to deal with. And the first one was finding a job so she could continue to live here.

She could do this all on her own. She didn't need Trunks, or anyone else.

"Hey! New girl! Ya got customers waiting!"

Marron grit her teeth and picked up a set of menus, trying not to grimace at the grease and grime that covered them. After three weeks of working at Yamcha's Plate, a small, seedy coffee shop, she still wasn't used to the working conditions. Walking out into the diner, she had to force a pleasant, but hopefully not too inviting, smile on her face.

"Hello," she said, and the three men waiting grinned. Marron shivered a little, but they didn't seem to notice. She didn't have to ask if they preferred smoking or non; the whole place reeked of alcohol and stale cigarette smoke, and she wondered how anyone could stand the stench enough to eat. Not, of course, that the food here was appetizing. "Right this way, gentlemen."

"Gentlemen, she says. Hey Yamcha, I like this one! Ya better keep her around!" the heaviest of the men yelled, flashing a smile toward the owner of the place.

Yamcha Bandit grinned and nodded his graying head. A tall man with thick shoulders and arms, he ran a tight ship, and that sometimes entailed getting on his staff. No doubt the new girl was a pretty thing, but he recognized a runaway when he saw one. What she was running from, he didn't care. All that mattered was that she showed up on time and made his customers happy. If she didn't – well, Yamcha Bandit could be a bit heavy-handed when he had to be.

Marron took their orders and turned away, only to have one of the men grab her backside. It didn't shock her so much as it had the first time someone had done it, but she still blushed. The men all laughed, and she swallowed back her anger. She needed this job if she was going to survive.

"Don't let 'em get to ya, honey. They're all just big jerks."

Marron turned to Valese Bloom, one of the other waitresses whom she had befriended. Valese was a couple of years older, with luscious sorrel-red hair and a sweet demeanor. She could also be tough when she had to be. "I know, Valese," Marron said, trying to forget the incident. But it was hard, considering it happened on a daily basis.

Valese patted her shoulder. "I can switch with ya, if ya want."

"No, it's fine. I can handle them." Marron knew Yamcha wouldn't like her ditching her table, even if the guys tried to manhandle her. Yamcha didn't like anything out of order. She summoned up her inner strength and returned to the table with the beer they had ordered. She set them on the table, very much aware of their intense stares. Her dark blue waitress uniform dress clung to every curve, and the men devoured her.

"Hey, sit awhile," the heavy man said, grabbing Marron by the wrist and tugging her into his lap as she turned to leave.

"Let go of me," Marron said, trying to sound firm. She struggled to get away from him, but he easily held her with one hand. "Let go of me!" Her voice rose in agitation, and from the corner of one gentian eye she saw Yamcha approaching.

"We gotta problem, Yamcha. She don't wanna sit with us," the big man said, his voice loud with complaint.

Yamcha scowled, and his ice-blue eyes narrowed. Marron shuddered and realized he wasn't going to help her. "Sit with them," he ordered, and she meekly nodded, knowing there was no other recourse.

"You're kinda feisty. I like that. Name's Nappa. You should remember it – you'll be shoutin' it later," the heavy man said, and Marron's eyes widened. Yamcha just smiled and walked away. All he wanted were happy customers. This new girl was working out better than he'd originally thought.

"Please, let me go. I have to get back to work," Marron said, but she'd lost the conviction in her tone. Nappa smirked and touched her face, but the smirk became a frown when she jerked back from him as if she'd been burned.

"You better knock that off, girlie, or I might have to get rough!" Nappa snapped, and gripped her forearm. Marron gasped; she could've sworn she'd felt her bones rub together. "And ya won't like that, I guarantee!"

"Hey Nappa, maybe she likes the rough stuff," one of the other men said, laughing. Marron flushed red and tried to pull out of Nappa's grasp.

"You're hurting me," she whispered, wishing someone would intervene.

"Nappa, honey, you let go of that little girl before I smack you upside the head!" Valese stood behind him, her arms crossed over her chest. She glanced over at Yamcha and he shrugged. Valese had been with him for ten years now, and he figured he owed it to her to let her be a little bossy now and then. And all his customers adored her, especially Nappa.

"Aw, come on, Valese. I was just teasin' her a little," the big man protested as he released Marron. She hurried away from them, not bothering to hear Valese's response. Once out of sight in the kitchen, she wiped at her eyes. No, no! I can't let this get to me! I have to be strong! Straightening, she squared her slim shoulders and headed back out.

She would do her job, no matter who she had put up with.

"Listen, Trunks, it's just not that easy. If the Chief knew I'd been feeding you info—"

"Save it, Son. I want to know who your contact is," Trunks said, leaning forward in his chair. Goten Son, his friend and fellow detective, sighed and rubbed the back of his head. Trunks still couldn't believe that the NYPD let him keep it, but he suspected it was overlooked because Goten was so good.

"I really don't think I can—"

"Now, Son."

"Fine. But I swear, if the Chief finds out, I'll tell him you held me at gun point and threatened my life," Goten warned, but there was a subtle twinkle in his cobalt eyes.

"Wouldn't be the first time," Trunks said, a small smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth.

Goten motioned his friend to lean closer. Trunks did so, Valeseching a few looks from some high school girls two tables away. They were smiling, but he had no time to be annoyed or insulted. Let them think what they wanted about his sexual orientation. "Alright, Briefs. The contact's name is Lime Noventa. She's younger than us, a little, and she's the niece of one of the Colds' guards," Goten said, very quietly, very deliberately.

"She wants out?"

Goten nodded. "Yeah. She helps us, we help her. You know the routine. But listen, you can't contact her on your own. She doesn't know you, and it could mess things up," he added, knowing his friend probably wouldn't listen to him. He rarely did.

Trunks nodded and took a long swallow of his Coke. "Don't worry. This is too important for me to mess up. Just keep me informed on what you find out, Goten."

"Sure." Goten glanced around, taking in the people. It was fairly crowded in the Lenox, but then it usually was. The Upper East Side was hopping all the time. "So, you gonna tell me where you've been stayin'?" He knew Trunks had ditched his regular apartment on the Upper West Side, but he hadn't yet been able to discover where he was staying.

Trunks shook his head, unruly bangs falling into his Prussian blues. "No, I'm not. It's for the best, Son. I can operate easier where I'm at." And, truth be dragged out of him, he was staying there, at least partly, because he wanted to keep an eye on Marron. He'd done some background research on her, and found out that Chesnut was her mother's maiden name, and that she was, quite indeed, the heir to the Chesnut family fortune, after her older brother, Sharpner. He suspected she was running from someone, but he couldn't be sure. The papers had said her parents' murder was random, with no other connections, but he wondered about that.

"Alright. Well, stay out of trouble. Good seein' ya." Goten stood up and held his hand out. Trunks nodded and got out of his chair, shaking his friend's hand.

"Take care, Son." Trunks headed out and hailed a taxi. He had a few stops to make before heading back to the Bronx.

I'm exhausted. I can't believe Yamcha made me work late.Marron sighed and shifted the grocery bag to her right hip so she could open the heavy building door. She knew Yamcha's reason – she had displeased him today, and he was making her pay for it. Wearily, her feet aching, her back sore from the long hours, she began climbing the stairs, each step slower than the last. I would have to live on the sixth floor, she mused, reaching up to brush back some wisps of hair that had escaped her long ponytail.

She had just entered the fifth landing when she heard a disgustingly familiar voice behind her. "Oh sweetheart, ya ain't runnin' away, are ya?" Nappa called out. Marron swallowed hard and turned cautiously to face him. He was with Nick, one of the other men who'd been at the table with him. She saw the hot lust in their eyes and, her own wide, began to back toward the last flight of stairs, already knowing they wouldn't let her make it up them.

"I'll scream," she weakly warned as they advanced, wondering what else she could do.

"Go ahead, sweetheart. Ain't no one gonna listen," Nappa informed her, and dread crept up into her chest, making it hard to breathe. She slowly reached into the grocery bag, feeling for the can of soup, but Nappa lunged at her, grabbing her by the arms and slamming her back against the dirty wall.

"Help! Help me!" Marron screamed, voice high and frightened, and Nappa grinned.

"See? No one cares." He pinned her wrists above her head and held them with one hand, while stroking her face with the other. Marron tried to knee him, but Nappa shifted, then slapped her, his green eyes hardening. "Play nice, honey," he said, and wrapped his free hand around her neck, squeezing just enough to close off windpipe.

She twisted in his grip, gentian eyes tearing up as she struggled for air. Someone, please, help me. I can't breathe... She felt another hand touch her left breast and saw that Nick was standing next to Nappa, desire flaming in his mud-brown orbs.

"Maybe she does like the rough stuff, Nick," Nappa said, smiling a sick, sadistic smile that turned Marron's blood to ice. She was losing consciousness, sliding into a great black void where there was no air, no pain, no anything – and then there wasair, and she was on the floor, gasping and choking, trying to fill her lungs back up.

She heard the sounds of fighting, heard grunts of pain and cursing, but couldn't seem to make sense of it. When the sounds died away, she felt someone cup her chin in their hand and lift it up. Focusing her eyes, she saw Trunks's face inches from her own, and his Prussian blues were stormy with mixed emotions.

"Just take it easy. You're safe now," he said, and she thought she heard concern in his voice but couldn't be sure. He turned her face gently to the left and right, and when he saw the mark from Nappa's heavy hand he swore under his breath. Marron shivered, suddenly cold and feeling terribly embarrassed. She could just imagine what she must look like. "Can you stand?" Trunks asked and she nodded. Her knees were soft, however, and she would have collapsed but for the strong arm he wrapped around her diminutive waist.

"Sorry," she whispered, her face red. This was so stupid. She shouldn't have to need his help just to stand.

"Nothing to be sorry for." He glanced down at the floor, noting the small bag of groceries. "Yours?" he asked, pointing down, and she nodded, fully intending on bending over for them. Trunks reached down instead and lifted it, disturbed by how light it was. Didn't this woman ever eat anything?

"Thank you," Marron said, very much aware that his arm was still around her waist, his hold tight and warm. I could get used to this, she thought, but knew nothing would come of it. Any guy with fairly decent morals would have helped her. Still, he washolding her pretty close—

"Come on. I'll walk you to your apartment." Trunks's low but firm tone cut off her musings, and she turned for the stairs. Only on second thought did she look around her attackers, and found them crumpled in a heap near the edge of the stairs leading down.

"Are they okay?" she asked, noting that, while breathing, they didn't move at all. Trunks cast an incredulous look her way. Who was this woman, concerned about the men who would have raped her had he not intervened? "Are they?" Marron asked again, more insistently.

"Yeah," he told her. She didn't need to know that the heavy guy had a broken nose and arm, and the other guy a broken jaw. That wasn't any of her concern, or shouldn't be, anyway. Letting go of her waist but taking hold of her right forearm, he helped her up the flight of stairs, going slow. He could see the exhaustion in her demeanor, but there was still a spark in her eyes. She wasn't the type to wallow in self-pity, or let anyone else feel sorry for her. He felt a flicker of admiration for her ignite in his heart.

When they reached her apartment, Trunks took her keys and opened the door, and stepped inside first. It was out of habit; he was usually the cop to go ahead of the others. There was only a single light bulb in the kitchen; he was appalled by the condition of the place. There was a draft from the windows in the living room, and he saw that there were large water stains on the ceiling. How could she stand to stay here, considering where she'd come from? He knew her parents' place was in the Upper East Side.

"May I come in?"

He jerked and turned around, nodding. Marron smiled and stepped in, and watching her, he saw the sag of her shoulders, the way her eyes darkened with sadness. So, she did mind, obviously. But why would she stay here, when she had her family home and all that money?

Marron reached out and took the bag of groceries from him, placing it on the counter. She shed her light weight jacket and walked into the living room to set it on the old battered couch. She took a deep breath and turned to him. "Thank you, for everything, Trunks," she said softly, and the sound of his name on her petal pink lips caused his chest to tighten with a deeply-buried emotion that he wasn't ready to identify.

"You're welcome," he said, trying to calm his racing heart. Marron looked down, and he realized he was making her uncomfortable. But yet, he was loath to leave, after what she had just been through. He'd had some experience with rape victims, and even though he'd stopped her attackers, she must have known what they'd had in mind for her.

"Um, would you like some coffee?" Marron asked, and he nodded quickly. It gave him an excuse to hang around and make sure she was really alright. She smiled and came into the kitchen to get the coffee going. He stayed out of her way, watching how she moved around the small area. She was very petite of frame, and his detective mind nailed her at five-five, one hundred twelve pounds. He frowned when he noticed her favoring her left wrist, and reached out to stop her. Marron's eyes flew to his, and he saw that he had startled her.

"Your left wrist," he said, pointing at it. "Is it okay?" There was unmistakable concern in his low voice, and Marron had to consciously remind herself to breathe. His touch was warm and gentle, and she wished she could feel it every once in awhile, just to remind herself that there was at least one decent guy in this horrible place.

"Nappa was holding my hands over my head," she explained, then blushed, knowing that Trunks already knew that. "I think it's just sprained," she added, her voice not much above a whisper. Trunks's eyes narrowed, and she flinched. He looked so menacing when he did that. It became hard to remember that he was her rescuer.

But the hands that reached for and then held her injured wrist were gentle and caring. He worked his long fingers over the area, and she stood rock-still, wondering if he could feel how fiercely her pulse was beating.

Satisfied, Trunks slowly let go of her wrist and met her wide eyes. He knew she was scared and worked up; her pulse was raging and fluttering, and he knew he couldn't very well leave her like this.

"I-I'm going to change," she said and escaped to her bedroom, not giving him time to say anything. He sighed and ran a hand over his face. Why was this happening now? He didn't need any added stress in his life. But there was no way he'd just forget about her. That would be like sending her to the wolves. And she knew her attackers. Well, one of them. Did they follow her from the grocery store?His eyes sparkled with anger at that thought.

The coffee was ready when Marron returned, dressed in slightly-beat up jeans and a thin, pale blue sweater. She took two mugs out of a cupboard that looked ready to collapse and poured. "How do you take yours?" she asked softly, and he pointed.

"Just like that."

She smiled faintly and handed a mug to him, glad he had said that. She wasn't sure she even had cream or sugar. She sipped at her own mug, trying not to show her total disgust. Her regular type of coffee had almost more sugar in it than coffee grounds, and she was honestly dying for a latte or something.

"You don't drink it black," Trunks said quietly, and she looked up at him, shaking her head.

"No," she admitted, but said nothing else. She didn't know him, wasn't ready to trust him totally, even if he had saved her from being raped. Raped. Oh, God, what am I doing here? I can't do this anymore! Her gentian eyes filled with hot, frustrated tears, and she set the mug down hard, knowing she had to get away from him before he could see her break down.

But Trunks intercepted her before she took two steps, and she gazed up at him, her mouth trembling. "Please, Trunks, just let me go," she whispered, and he shook his head, lavender hair falling forward over his right eye.

"No, Marron, I won't," he said, as gently as he could. She bit her bottom lip, and he could tell she wasn't far from crying. "I promise, as long as you're with me, no one will hurt you. Now come on. You're staying at my place tonight." There was firm command in his voice. He wasn't sure what he was going to do with her tomorrow, but tonight, at least, she would have a safe place to rest.

Marron meekly nodded. She knew, instinctively, that he was someone she could trust, even if she wasn't ready to yet. But his offer of protection was very much welcome, and she slowly began to relax.

Somehow, maybe, things would get better now.

Trunks unlocked his door and stepped in, flipping on the kitchen light and glancing around, his sharp eyes looking for anything out of place. He had promised the girl safety, and that was what she would get. He knew he still had to call the police on the two men he'd beat up in the stairwell, but his first priority was getting Marron settled in and comfortable.

"Come in," he said, glancing over one broad shoulder at her. She had a duffel bag with her, hanging off a slim shoulder, and she looked petrified. He gentled his tone, knowing how intimidating he usually sounded. It was a great voice for police work, but not so grand for convincing the young woman everything would be alright if she just stepped over the threshold. "It's okay."

Marron gave a quick nod and walked in, glancing around a bit before landing her gaze on him. "Thank you, Trunks, for letting—"

He held up a hand. "Don't thank me yet. My bed might be in worse shape than yours is," he said, and she detected just the tiniest glimmer of humor in his voice. She smiled, wanting to encourage his lightheartedness. "The bedroom is back this way." He moved away and giving the kitchen one last look, she followed him, feeling uncomfortable again. Oh, this wasn't the first time she'd spent the night at a guy's place. She'd slept at Uub's several times over the years. But she had never been attracted to him, not like that.

But Trunks was, well, a different story. She already missed his gentle hand on her body. She blushed again. Stop it. He didn't ask you to stay here because he likes you. He just feels sorry for you. Still, he did seem pretty protective of her, and they barely knew each other.

"It sags a little, but you're a lot lighter than I am, so it should be okay," Trunks told her, gesturing toward the bed. Marron stopped next to him and nodded.

"I'm sure it will be fine." She set her bag on the floor and folded her hands together, not quite sure what she should do or say now. Trunks swept the small room once, and satisfied that she would be safe back here, turned to leave.

"I'll be in the living room if you need anything," he said and left before she could tell him thank you again. In his eyes, he hadn't done anything really to merit her thankfulness. Anyone could have helped her with those two thugs. But no one would have busted them up like you did. He shook his head at his intrusive conscience and went to the living room to call the closest Bronx station. He'd have the men held until at least tomorrow to see if Marron wanted to press charges. He hoped she would. Too many women let their attackers off, in his opinion.

Marron quickly changed into a pair of flannel plaid pajama pants and a dark blue T, then climbed into his bed. She snuggled beneath the blankets, pressing her left cheek against the pillow. His pillow. She sniffed, taking in the scent that was distinctly Trunks. It was a somewhat sharp scent, but she felt it fit him. Sharp, and yet very comforting. She smiled and closed her eyes, feeling safe for the first time since her parents had been murdered and her older brother taken away.

Trunks sat down at his computer after making the necessary call, but didn't go online. There was a woman sleeping in his bed. A really hot woman. He sighed, wishing that things were a little different. Okay, a lot different. He liked Marron, even though he didn't really know her. He was definitely attracted to her. But given the present circumstances, nothing could go further than that. He had two murder cases to solve, and nothing, or no one, could distract him from that.

I should try to sleep. I need the rest.He went to the couch and lay down, closing his eyes. But if he thought just by doing that he could stop thinking about Marron, he was wrong. The coffee maker she used was pretty new. Where'd she get it? If she has all that money, why doesn't she stay somewhere better?With a groan, he flipped over on his stomach and forced himself to relax, and think of nothing but sleep. Marron was safe now, and that was all he could do for the moment.

The screams came later in the early morning, startling him awake from his own blood-bathed nightmares. He reacted at once, swinging off the couch and turning on the lamp, his lean, hard body tense, his Prussian eyes narrowed in concern. He strode down the short hallway and pushed open the bedroom door, one hand reaching to flick on the light.

Marron was still asleep, but her body was reacting violently to whatever hideousness was occurring in her nightmare. Trunks frowned and went to the bed, settling his tall frame down, lurching a little when it sank beneath his weight. The frightened young woman jerked and sat upright, eyes blinking wide. Trunks cautiously reached out a hand and touched her shaking shoulder. Marron screamed again and jumped off the bed, breathing hard, and backed away from him.

"Marron. Marron, calm down. It's me, Trunks," he said quietly, getting off the bed to approach her. She stared at him, and he could see she was struggling to understand what was going on, and where she was. He stopped five feet from her, not wanting her to feel trapped. "Marron, it's me, Trunks," he repeated, voice low, his usual monotone gentled with concern.

Marron took a deep breath, focusing on the man in front of her, on his low, calming voice, on the fact that she knew him – "Trunks!" She rushed at him, flinging herself toward his body. The young detective barely had time to open his arms before she was in them, arms wrapped around his waist. She was trembling, and against his better judgment, he held her, bringing her closer to him.

"Shh. It's alright," he said, gazing down at the top of her honey-blonde head. Somehow, this felt right, to be holding her, and he shook his head slightly. No. I can't get involved with her. It wouldn't work.When Marron began to relax, he slowly eased her away from him. Her gentian orbs lifted to his dark blue ones, and he saw her confusion; for some reason, that hit him hard, and he nearly wrapped her up in his arms again. But he stayed the impulse.

"You okay now?" he asked, trying to sound detached. But he was too worried to pull that off, and she could tell he was honestly concerned about her.

"Yes. Thank you," she whispered, then squared her shoulders. "I'm sorry for waking you." She moved to walk around him, her head up. Though he was concerned, she also sensed that he wasn't comfortable in the role of comforter, and didn't wish to bother him.

Trunks sighed and shoved a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. He hadn't meant to make her feel bad. He just didn't think being so touchy-feely was a good idea. After all, he was only giving her a safe place to stay for the night. And as much as he wanted to believe that, he knew it was completely untrue.

"Marron, wait." He turned toward her and watched her stop, her shoulders stiff. "I'm sorry, too. I didn't mean to just brush you off like that." When she glanced at him, he hoped she would see that he honestly hadn't meant to be a jerk.

"It's okay." She looked down at her sock-clad feet. "Um, I should probably try to get back to sleep," she said softly, not chancing another look at her host. He looked way too cute with his hair completely tousled and his clothes rumpled. And she really didn't want to go back to sleep right away, wasn't sure she even could, but she knew she couldn't impose any further on him.

Trunks's eyes narrowed a titch. He knew she was still upset, so why was she acting like everything was alright? "Marron, you're not okay. Come on. We'll go in the living—"

"I said I need to sleep," she said, interrupting him, and his dark blues flashed and he took a step closer to her.

"Yeah, and I think you can't. That nightmare was pretty bad, wasn't it?" When she didn't answer, he prodded her. "Well? Was it horrible? Huh?" Why he was working her over, he wasn't sure. He knew her dreams must have been tortured for her to scream like that, but he wanted to hear her say it.

Marron bit her lip and looked up at him, and he was alarmed by the raw, naked fear in her eyes. "Yes, it was horrible, Trunks," she whispered, unable to force more sound into her voice. He swallowed hard and walked up to her, reaching, hesitantly, to put his large hands on her shoulders. "There was blood, everywhere," she added, and his heart felt like a pike had been driven into it.

Blood, just like in my dreams. Without a word, because there wasn't anything even remotely comforting he could think to say, he bent down and pulled the heavy quilt off the bed and carefully wrapped it around her shoulders. Taking her wrist in his hand, he led her out to the couch, where he had her sit. Marron cuddled up in the thick blanket until just her lovely, pale face was showing.

Trunks went into the kitchen and opened up his cupboards. He took out two mugs, set them on the counter, then opened the fridge for the milk. Turning on a burner, he poured milk into a saucepan to heat, then took two hot chocolate packets out of a different cupboard. He knew Goten thought it was weird that he liked hot cocoa (well, who didn't?), but it reminded him of his partner, for it had been Gohan's favorite drink.

He glanced into the living room and a quiet, rare smile touched his mouth at the sight of her completely cocooned in the quilt. Checking the milk, he turned the burner off and poured the steaming liquid into the mugs, then stirred in the chocolate packets. He picked them up and then, on second thought, set them down and took his Southern Comfort out, adding a tablespoon to his and half of one to hers. He knew the amber whiskey would help relax her, and that was what he wanted.

"Here." He handed the mug to Marron; she had to struggle out of the quilt to take it, but her gentian eyes lit up when she saw what it was.

"Oh, thank you, Trunks!" There was genuine excitement in her voice, and he wondered at that. Didn't she get hot chocolate that often?

"No problem," he said as he sat down next to her. Marron sipped very carefully, and he watched as her eyes fluttered closed in bliss. He smirked a little, and his heart warmed at knowing he'd made her happy. "You like it?"

"Oh, yes! I've never had hot chocolate with milk before," she confessed, flashing a bright smile at him. Trunks drew in a quick breath, totally taken in with the petite blonde. But yet, as much as he wanted to, he knew he couldn't allow himself to just give in to liking her. Because if he did, he would have to take her into his arms and kiss her senseless, and that just couldn't happen.

"So, tell me about your nightmare." His sudden change in topic had thrown her, he could tell, but he pushed away the guilt. The nightmare would focus his thoughts away from wanting to hold her.

"Um, well..." Marron wasn't sure what to say. How could she explain it without him asking questions? But would that be so bad? Iwould really like someone I could talk honestly to. But how can I trust him? We don't know each other.

Trunks sensed the battle taking place inside his guest, and without thinking, reached out to touch her silken cheek. She turned wide eyes to him, but he saw, with pleasure, that there was no fear in them, just mild wariness. "Its okay, Marron," he said softly, and felt her relax under his caring touch. He knew he couldn't keep doing this, but wasn't so sure he could stop. He wanted to, needed, in fact, to touch her.

She nodded and took another sip from her mug. Deciding she didn't really have much choice, because she figured Trunks was as persistent as he was handsome, she began to talk. "I have the nightmares every night," she said quietly. "They always start out so wonderful. My parents and my older brother are with me, and we're happy and...content." When she paused, Trunks reached out and took her right hand in his left one, squeezing it gently. He wanted her to know he was there for her, no matter what she had to say. "But then, somewhere in the middle, they change. There's blood – so much of it, it turns everything red. Everything gets distorted, but I still see it happen, every single time..."

She didn't go on, and Trunks hesitated to push her, but he was a police detective, and extremely curious. The fact that blood played such a part in her dreams – could she have seen her parents' murder? Is that the reason she's hiding?The idea of someone chasing Marron, threatening to end her life, was almost too much for him to bear, and he knew he was already in way over his head. But he realized, with a jolt, that he didn't care.

"Marron, what do you see?" he asked, keeping his tone low. She stared down at the floor, and he feared that perhaps he had lost her confidence, but then, she began to talk again, slowly, as if feeling her way.

"I-I see my parents, walking toward me. And then, this, this wave of blood just crushes them...and my brother, he's there too, but then he's gone." Marron stopped to inhale a shaking breath. She'd never shared her nightmares with anyone, and it was draining, not knowing how Trunks would react.

Trunks let her collect herself, not pushing her. He could see she was exhausted, and telling him about the nightmare was just pushing her closer to an edge he didn't want her going over. "If you don't want to tell me—"

"No, I do, Trunks. It's just, it's hard. You, you see," Marron decided she just had to trust him, "My real name is Marron Chesnut. My parents were murdered seven weeks ago, and my brother, Sharpner, was taken away by the men who killed them." She turned her gaze to meet Trunks's, and saw he was upset by her revelations.

"Marron, I'm so sorry," he said, and there was a roughness in his voice that betrayed all the emotions he was trying to rein in and hide. It didn't matter that he'd already known her true identity; to hear the story from her own lips, to see how much it was destroying her – "I'm so sorry."

She bowed her head under the weight of his anguished words, and Trunks couldn't help himself, wasn't sure he wanted to help it – he reached out with his left arm and drew her to him, removing the quilt from her shoulders so she was pressed tightly against his muscular body. Marron stiffened for only a moment, and then completely relaxed and turned sideways so she could lay her right cheek on his taut chest. His quickened, hard heartbeats were a calming influence on the young woman, and she leaned more into him, as if she needed to be even closer.

"Shh, it's going to be alright," Trunks said quietly, desperate to ease her fear and worry. So much for staying out of her problems, he thought somewhat ruefully, but knew there was no helping his feelings. He wasn't a cold man; he'd had a few girlfriends, knew what was expected in a relationship, but he'd never experienced – What? No. No, I can't think that I'm inlove with her! Not this soon! We don't know each other...But all the arguments his stoic, precisional mind had prepared fell back, defeated, by the onslaught of his hot emotions.

"Trunks..." Marron trailed off, suddenly afraid to tell him her secret. But she had trusted him this far, and he was certainly acting like he could handle it—

"What is it?" he asked, looking down at her, his arms holding her tight, maybe too tightly, but she wasn't complaining and he wasn't going to ease up.

"I-I saw...I saw them kill my parents," she whispered, and he sucked in a hard breath. What if the killers had seen her, too? Were they even now stalking her? Without realizing it, his steel-laced arms had strengthened, and Marron felt like a bird trapped inside a boa constrictor's coils. "H-Trunks..." she managed to gasp, and suddenly she could breathe again as he saw his mistake and lessened his hold. But he wasn't letting go of her.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, and Marron pushed herself upright and turned slightly, so she could look at him. His beautifully dark blue eyes were near-black with a myriad of emotions, the strongest of which she wasn't sure she believed. Could he really feel that way for me, already?But as she continued to gaze into those storming blue pools, she knew he did feel that way, and when his eyes widened a little, she knew her own gentian orbs were answering with her own heartfelt emotion.

"Marron..." The word descended over her only seconds before his mouth captured hers, his lips firm and gentle, yet very insistent. As she let him in, let him explore, she felt as if she were drowning in a flood, but there was no panic, no trying to get away or get out. Trunks's arms tightened a little, anchoring her solidly against him in the storm of emotions, and she sighed when he finally released her.

Trunks couldn't remember ever feeling like this, like he wanted to take flight, like he could take flight without any technology. Just stretch his sinewy arms upward and lift off, and carry both himself and Marron far from this awful place. He focused his eyes on her, taking in her mussed mane of wild honey, her slightly-dazed gentian eyes, her swollen lips, and wanted to remember how she looked right now for the rest of his life. There could never be a better picture of her.

"Trunks, I—"

"Don't say anything," he whispered as his mouth took hers again, his touch scorching with flame, searing her flesh as one of his hands came up to cup her cheek. She inhaled sharply, but he gave her no room to recuperate as he parted her lips and drank her essence in, saturating himself with her taste, her feel, her emotions. She was his now, only and forever his, and this kiss was his branding of her. She could never, ever be confused as to how he felt, not after this.

He kissed her long, sometimes hard, sometimes gentle, until he felt her tremble against him. Only then did he break contact, breathing deep to fill his depleted lungs. Marron rested her cheek on his chest again, reveling now in the power and strength of this man who had, only hours before, rescued her from a nasty fate.

"Marron, koibito, you're going to be okay. I'm going to make sure of it," he told her, his voice husky and low, and completely sultry. She sat up to look at him, and saw his promise in those deep, fathomless Prussian blues.

"Koibito?"

He smiled, and the warmth of it lit up her soul, and again she felt weak, like when he was kissing her. How could one man affect her so much? "It means sweetheart in Japanese," he explained softly. Marron smiled too, then, her guess at his heritage having proved correct. "Do you like it?"

"Yes, I do. So, I'm your sweetheart, then?" she asked, a little coyly, wanting to flirt with him. He nodded, giving her a squeeze.

"You are. And my koishii, or beloved, and tenshi, too. Tenshi means angel," he added before she could ask. "And I promise, I won't let anyone hurt you ever again." There was such fierce steel in his tone that her stomach fluttered. She knew he meant what he said.

"So, does this mean..." She trailed off, unsure of how to approach the subject.

"We're dating? Yeah, it does." He kissed her again, his lips barely grazing hers. It was just enough to stoke his desire again, but he knew they weren't ready for that yet. And, honestly, he had always thought that sex was a special part of being married, something that shouldn't be sullied by everyday casual urges. At least, he had always admired his parents for waiting.

"Good. I like you, Trunks Briefs," Marron said, giggling a little. Trunks smiled again, his teeth sharply white against his tan face. Even this far into the fall, he retained his darker sun coloring, usually even until November or December.

"And I like you, Marron Chesnut," he murmured, then hugged her close, his eyes closing as he relished the softness of her body in his arms. And I will keep my promise to you, koishii. You belong to me, and I will never let any harm come to you, no matter what happens.

"So why didn't you stay in Manhattan?" Trunks asked, his clear blue gaze directly on Marron, probing and prodding. It was four-thirty AM, and neither was in much hurry to get back to sleep. He guessed for her it was because of her nightmares. For him – well, he was too interested in his new girlfriend. Girlfriend. Am I crazy? I never rush into things like this.But looking at the petite blonde sitting across the table from him, he knew there hadn't been much choice. He'd been thinking about her nonstop for three weeks, and with her in such a frightened, emotional state – well, so he was rushing things. Big deal.

"I was afraid they'd find me." Marron shivered and drew Trunks's sweatshirt closer to her thin body. "They would kill me, if they found me." Her voice was low and deceptively calm, but Trunks was used to seeing past what someone wanted him to see. He reached out and took her left hand, squeezing it. Marron smiled for him, but he knew that was all the bravery she had right then.

"Who, honey? Who killed your parents?" he asked quietly, wishing he could take away all of her fear and pain. Marron swallowed hard and stared down at the table. She knew she should tell him the truth, but would he believe her? Wouldn't he wonder why her family was mixed up with the most notorious mob in New York? Still, she wanted him to trust her.

"The Colds," she whispered, and saw him jerk, his Prussian orbs widening with surprise and disbelief. He pulled his hand from hers and got up from the table, a look of mild confusion on his face.

"The mob?" He walked away, not comprehending this news. Why the Colds? What did they have against Marron's parents? Turning to face her, he ran his hands through his hair. "Why, Marron? Why would they be after your parents?" he asked, and she was taken back by the fierceness in his eyes. "Tell me," he commanded, leaning his hands on the table.

Marron looked away, tears forming in her eyes. Why was he being so cold toward her now? Was it her fault her parents had been involved with the mob? Hadn't she asked her father and Sharpner not to do business with them? "H-Trunks, I—"

"Tell me." Gone was the warmth that had melted away her fear and loneliness. It was replaced with cool harshness, and suddenly she decided it had been a mistake to come here. What had she been thinking? She got up and slowly lifted her gaze to his, flinching at the arctic storm brewing there.

"Thank you, for saving me tonight. I need to—"

"You aren't going anywhere." He moved around the table like a panther and took hold of her wrist. His hold wasn't painful, but Marron wasn't sure she should trust him right now. He tried to lead her into the living room, and found her resisting. Glancing at her over his shoulder, he was shocked to see the fear in those pretty violet-blue eyes of hers, and he immediately released his grip on her. "Marron?"

"Trunks, maybe I should go. You're upset, and—"

"Upset? Koibito, I'm not upset. I'm worried. The Cold family is extremely powerful. I just want to know why they killed your parents. Do you know?" He knew the Colds did nothing randomly. They were careful, and usually only went after people they deemed dangerous to themselves. That they had found Marron's parents adversarial was very worrisome.

"I-I can't tell you," she said, and he resisted the urge to shake her. She was frightened enough as it was. "You can't help me, Trunks. These people, they'll stop at nothing to get what they want. I don't want you to get killed." Not hurt. No, the Colds didn't hurt. They strangled, shot, drowned, burned...the list could go on. He already knew what he was up against. And he also knew that there was no way he would let them get to Marron. It wasn't even a remote possibility.

"Marron, you have to tell me. I can help you. I already promised I would protect—"

"Trunks, you don't understand!" She started crying, and his chest began to ache with futility. How could he help her when she wasn't willing to trust him? Not sure what else he could do at this point, he simply pulled her to him and held her, murmuring softly to her. Her tears started to subside, and he realized that he'd have to tell her who he really was, too.

"Baby, you have to trust me. I can help you. I'm a detective with the NYPD, in Manhattan," he said, and she pulled back from him, her eyes locked on his face. "I probably should've told you that sooner."

"The gun. That's why you have that gun," she said, and added, seeing his confusion, "That one night, when the guy across the hall was beating his girlfriend." She looked down as she spoke, her words quieting. Trunks reached out to tip her chin up so he could see her eyes. They were teary, as he had suspected.

"How do you know about that?"

"I saw her a few days later. She had a black eye," Marron said, biting her lip. "She told me she doesn't have anywhere else to go, that her aunt kicked her out. I tried to talk her into going to a shelter, but she wouldn't listen." Her voice was filled with sadness, and Trunks wanted, desperately, to make her happier.

"They don't, usually. But there might be something I can do to help her." He put an arm around her shoulders. "Come on and sit."

Marron reluctantly let him lead her to the couch, knowing he was going to press her for more information on her parents. Trunks went to his fridge and got out two cans of Coke, figuring it might wake her up a little more. She wasn't leaving the couch until he had what he wanted.

"Okay, tenshi, tell me what you know," he said, handing her a can as he sat next to her. His deep blue eyes were narrowed slightly, and she wondered if anyone could resist his questioning.

"Trunks, if you work out of Manhattan, why are you here?" she asked, hoping to sidetrack him. And, she really wanted to know. It was comforting to know he was a police detective; she'd already felt safe with him, but now felt even better. Still, she wasn't sure how he was going to react to the truth when he heard it.

"No, Marron. You answer me now, I answer you later. Now come on. Tell me what I want to know." His voice was quiet and steady, and she sighed. She'd trusted him this far along.

"My brother, Sharpner, got involved in some gambling. At first, it was just small stuff." Marron had to pause, had to collect her thoughts. Trunks was watching her intently. "Then, he decided to do something big, because he'd been winning. A friend convinced him he had the touch, or something stupid like that, so he bet on a Yankees game—"

"When did this start?" Trunks asked, hating to interrupt, but his mind was already trying to piece together what had been going on.

"Umm—" Marron had to stop and think. "About two years ago Sharpner made his first bets, so the Yankee one was about a year ago." Her voice was low, and she seemed jumpy, as if there was someone else who might hear her.

"What happened with the Yankees bet?" Trunks asked, staying still, his voice quiet but determined. He had to know what was going on if he was going to help her.

"They lost, and he lost all of his money. But he wouldn't stop, even though I begged him to." Tears welled up in her eyes, but before Trunks could react, she brushed them away with a violent hand. "He asked his friend for money, because he didn't want Father to find out about his habit. His friend gave Sharpner a lot so he could keep betting. But when he lost on another big bet, his friend wanted his money back—"

"Your brother's friend is a Cold?" Trunks's tone had gotten colder, his Prussian blues more broGohang. This just couldn't be leading anywhere good. I can't believe a guy with wealth like that would get involved with the mob. Didn't he know his friend very well?

Marron shook her head, blonde hair swaying like waves on a shore. "His name is—" She stopped, all at once unsure of herself. She had met Sharpner's friend on several occasions, and had never felt comfortable around him. His dark eyes had always seemed foresting, and she had always wondered why her brother liked him so much. Of course, later on, it didn't matter if Sharpner liked him or not – he owned her brother.

"Marron." She snapped back out of her reverie and stared at Trunks. He was being paGohant, but she could see the toll that was taking on him. "Just tell me, honey," he encouraged, and though he was trying to be gentle and understanding, he could tell by the look in her eyes that he wasn't doing a good job. Still, if he could get the information he needed...

"His name is Turles Cap. He, he is a part of the Cold mob, though." Her voice caught, as if saying that word was enough to choke her. Trunks frowned and moved closer to her, wanting to offer all the support he could. She glanced at him, but wasn't able to smile. There was no sparkle in her eyes, either, and he thought about kissing her again, just to bring back her shine. But, he knew, kissing would resolve nothing. He had to push past this.

"And the mob wanted their moneyback. But why go after your parents? Why not Sharpner?" Trunks was thinking out loud, not really paying attention to Marron now. He got off the couch to pace. He always thought better on his feet.

"They went after him, believe me. But my father had found out about his gambling, and he tried to reason with the Colds, saying he would pay off Sharpner's debt. Turles said that wasn't enough, though. He said my brother had acted irresponsibly, even though, of course, he'd been the one goading Sharpner." Marron's voice was a little shaky, her anger at the betrayal seeping out. Trunks glanced at her.

"Keep going. What did your father do?" he asked, resuming his pacing. He did stop to grab his Coke, swallowing back some of the acidy pop. What his girlfriend was telling him rang true of how the mobs worked. They wanted paybacks, but often in blood.

Marron sighed, just a little, and drank some Coke too. She knew Trunks was just trying to help her, but she couldn't help feel like he had some other reason for wanting to know what had happened. "My father asked what he could do to keep Sharpner safe." When she volunteered no further information, the young detective turned to her, an eyebrow raised.

"Well?" he prompted, his voice steely. "Marron, if I'm going to help you—"

"Turles said he needed help keeping the police off his men. My father was good friends with several of the police chiefs, so..." She didn't want to go on. This just all sounded too bad, made her father look like a criminal—

"Your father was paying off cops?" Trunks was now standing directly in front of her, and she couldn't bear to look up at him. "Well? Was he? Tell me!" His hands pounced on her shoulders, and though he wouldn't think of consciously hurting her, unconsciously his grip tightened, becoming horribly painful, and causing the nervous young woman to jump up and push him away. Trunks grabbed her left wrist, and she saw the arctic cold in his blue eyes, eyes that no longer looked trusting.

"Let go of me!" she demanded, her voice high, frightened, her body trembling. He did, as if realizing suddenly what he was doing, and raked his hands through his hair, causing it to stand end-on-end, completely untamed.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"No, I'm the one who's sorry. I thought I could trust you, Trunks, especially after what you did and said. But, but you're no better than those men who attacked me!" Her words poured like water from her lips, and as horrified as she'd be later on upon reflecting on them, right now they sounded like truth. His Prussian orbs widened in shock, and then she saw a darkness slide into them, effectively masking all of his emotions.

"I was wrong to kiss you and say all of that." His voice was low and flat. "It'd be better if you left."

"I'm going," Marron huffed and hurried to the bedroom to gather up her clothes and stuff them into her bag. Why was this going so wrong? Why had he pushed her for information so hard? What did he care? She took off his sweatshirt and threw it at him upon entering the living room again. As she stormed toward the door, she stopped and glanced over her shoulder.

He was staring at her, with nothing revealing in his gaze, his strong arms crossed over his chest. "So much for being your koibito," Marron said, trying to sound as hurtful as she could. It got no response from him, and her gentian eyes hardened. "Stay away from me. I don't need you to help me. I don't want your protection."

"I don't intend on helping or protecting you. You're just as bad as anyone else in the Cold mob. I can't believe your family was paying cops to look the other way." Trunks spoke slowly, injecting each word with as much ice as he could. But if he was hoping to see her break down, to cry and beg forgiveness, it wasn't about to happen. Marron Chesnut asked for no one to forgive her, not now, not ever, starting at this very moment. She'd have died first.

"Bye, Trunks." She slammed the door and stalked toward her own apartment. A glance at her watch, one of the few things she'd taken with her from her old home (like her father's favorite coffee pot), showed she only had two hours before she had to be at work. Gritting her teeth, she lifted her head and forced back the tears that burned deep in her eyes. It would've never worked, anyway. I knew he'd turn once he found out the truth. And anyway, honestly, I don't need him, or anything he could give me. She kept repeating those solemn words as she let herself back into her apartment.

Trunks's heart felt like a thousand needles were sticking and jabbing it, but there was no way he'd go after her. She had said it herself: she didn't need him. And how, honestly, could he help her, when her family was engaged with the worst mob family New York had ever seen? It went against every feeling of right and justice he had! Besides, he already had two murder cases to solve. And being romantically involved with her had been a horrible idea.

But why, then, did he still taste her longing and desire? Why couldn't he just forget her, forget how scared she'd been when he'd saved her? Forget how she'd felt in his arms? Stupid idiot. I can't believe I thought it would work. We don't know each other, obviously. If I'd known then what her family was, and who they were working for, I'd have never gotten involved.He sighed and stretched out on the couch and forced his eyes to close.

There was nothing he could do for her, nothing that he wanted to do for her. And as he finally began to drift, he kept telling himself that.

It was dark, and cold, and he kept struggling against his bonds, already knowing there was no escaping. No, he'd realized that when his "friend" had turned him over to the Cold mob and gone after his family. And now his parents were dead because of what he'd done, and Marron – well, he knew she too would die when they found her. It wouldn't be long, now, either. One of their men had a lead on her.

"Still trying to get out, Sharpner? You really are a fool." Turles Cap's voice was chillingly low, and Sharpner had to steel himself against his instinctive shiver. Turles turned his flashlight away and squatted down. "Just thought you'd like an update. Your sister appears to be in the Bronx. And I don't mean the part of town a respectable young lady would go."

"I swear, Turles, if you—"

"What, friend? Hurt her? Oh, I'm sure you know how we operate. Hurting her is only the first step. Then there's torture. What is she afraid of? Fire? Water? Guns? Well, even if you don't know, we'll find out." Turles stood and stared down at the blonde. "Such a waste, too. She's very pretty. Maybe I should keep her as a mistress. For myself, of course."

Sharpner knew the words were meant to goad him into acting and talking, saying things he couldn't back up. So he determined to not say anything. He couldn't help his sister now, anyway. He expected, actually, to never see her again. Turles turned the flashlight back on him, Sharpner squinting through his pain.

"Such a tough person you are. You may as well drop the façade, Chesnut. I know you're dying to yell at me," Turles said, a smug smile on his face. When the blonde didn't answer, his captor kicked him, hard, directly in the ribs. Sharpner felt one give a little, but refused to give Turles any satisfaction in reacting.

"Turles, the boss called." A large man stepped into the room, a tiny cell phone enveloped in on hand.

"Ah, very well, then. But, Sharpner, I will be back. And when we catch your little sister, we'll show her the same hospitality we've shown you. And then—" Turles leaned down, close to the captive man's ear, "I'm going to have her tortured, slowly, before we kill her." He straightened and turned to the other man. "Gag him this time. No one can hear him down here, anyway, so he may as well not be able to speak."

"My pleasure." The man moved toward Sharpner as Turles walked out, and the blonde closed his eyes against the sudden rushing of tears.

Please, Marron, stay safe for me.

Trapped in Violence

Chapter Five: Dangerous Conversations

"Uub, we have simply got to find out where she is!"

The handsome young brunette sighed and stared at the spitfire pacing in front of him. "Pan, Marron knows what she's doing. If she needs help, she'll contact us," he said, trying to be patient. It wasn't that he wasn't worried about their friend – far from it, actually. But Marron had made it clear that she didn't want them involved right now.

Pan Satan stopped and glared at him, her icy blues shooting darts. "So we sit and do nothing? What if she's hurt? What if someone's kidnapped her or—"

"Stop." Uub got to his feet and shook his head. He couldn't bear to think of something happening to the delicate honey-blonde. They'd been friends for years, and he was very protective of her, and now was beginning to wish he hadn't listened to her. "This isn't helping Marron."

"Well, I'm not just going to forget about her, either. She needs us, Uub, whether she wants to admit it or not." Pan walked away, her high-heeled black boots clicking on the polished marble floor of the Majin's living room. Uub ran a hand through his hair. What could he do, really? They had no idea where Marron was.

"So what do you propose to do, Pan? Put up missing person posters?" he asked, not quite able to hide the sarcastic tone. She glared at him over her shoulder. "Well?"

"No, of course not. I have a better idea." Pan had many connections, the least of which was one she rarely used for fear of it haunting her. Still, if anyone could help her, it would be him. "I'll find out where she is, Uub, so you can go rescue her. That's really what you want to do, isn't it? Be her knight in gleaming Armani?" Pan knew he wouldn't answer her, but he didn't have to. She knew he carried a torch for their beautiful friend. It was a pity, of course, that Marron didn't reciprocate.

"How do you plan to find her?" Uub's voice was low and a little dangerous. He didn't appreciate Pan's words at all.

"I can't tell you, dear one. You know I never reveal my sources."

Uub snorted. "If I didn't know better, I'd say your connection is someone in the mob." He walked past her, and she was grateful that he had so he didn't see her quick look of shock. Could he know? No, of course not. I'm careful. There's no way he'd know.

"Very funny, sweetie." Pan followed him, and couldn't help but admire his proud stride and solid build. It was too bad he wasn't really her type. But she certainly wouldn't mind a fling with him. He was good eye candy. She smiled and tossed her brown hair back over her shoulders.

One thing at a time, beautiful. Find Marron, and then have fun messing with Uub.It was a wonderful plan.

"We need to find that girl!" Hercule DiLiar roared, slamming a hand down on the old walnut desk. No one jumped, but two of the men rolled their eyes. Turles shifted on his feet and glanced at Freiza Cold, his best friend and future leader of the Cold family. "Well? What are you all standing around for?"

"Hercule, calm down before you give yourself a heart attack," Freiza said, stepping toward him. "We have word that she may be in the Bronx. My boys are down there now. We'll find her."

"And why are you so cavalier about this, Freiza? Your father left specific instructions before he left that she is to be found and eliminated," Hercule barked, his dark eyes snapping. Freiza smiled and he backed up a step. He knew that smile, and knew the younger man wasn't to be trifled with.

"Don't worry. We'll find her and kill her, and then the Chesnut fortune will belong to the Colds. And if you're lucky, Hercule, you'll get some of that, too." Freiza turned to leave the large study. "You know I'd never be 'cavalier' about money," he added over his shoulder, his tone icy.

"No, of course not, Freiza," Hercule said, humbled. He knew that if he was to stay in favor with King Cold, the head of the Cold clan, he had to put up with his son.

Turles smiled to himself and followed Freiza from the room, leaving Hercule alone with his men. "He does get quite belligerent at times, doesn't he?" Turles asked, and Freiza turned to him, a true smile on his handsome face. At age twenty-six, he was popular among his socialite peers, and could have any woman he wanted. And, unfortuYamchaly, that woman at the moment happened to be Anne Une, Turles's new girlfriend. Of course, Turles didn't know that, and wouldn't. Freiza respected him too much to steal his girl.

"Yes, the old fool. Still, the DiLiar family is a force to be reckoned with, which is why my father wants them kept close," Freiza said quietly. "Turles, I want the Chesnut girl brought in as soon as she's found. With her under our thumb, we can get Sharpner to sign over the Chesnut fortune to my father."

Turles nodded, his hazel eyes darkening. "Don't worry. My men will find her soon."

"Ah yes, 'Ginyu Force.' A different name for a lynch mob, my friend."

"It does hide their identities, does it not?" Turles questioned, one eyebrow raised. Freiza smiled and gestured toward his personal study.

"Why don't we go over our strategy one more time for finding the Chesnut girl?"

Turles shook his head, apology lighting his always-expressioYamcha eyes. "I have other business I must attend to, Freiza. But I will meet you tonight and we can finalize everything."

"Alright. I myself have business, so I will see you tonight." The two men shook hands, and it looked like thunder meeting lightning. They were, with no doubts, the two most powerful young men in New York, and quite possibly in the United States. Each went their separate ways, but their latest endeavor together stayed in the forefront of their minds.

They would have the Chesnut fortune, no matter who they had to kill.

"Honey, you feel alright? You don't look so good," Valese said as Marron came into the back, a tray in her hands. She felt sorry for her younger friend, for she didn't think Marron belonged in a place like this.

Marron shrugged, her face impassive. "I'm fine, Valese. It's just another day." And so it had been since her fight with Trunks two weeks before. She hadn't seen him since then, and kept constantly reminding herself that it was for the best. He would never understand, not being a police detective. All he knew was that her father had been paying off cops (and even a few police chiefs) to look away from dealings being done by the Cold mob. He wouldn't see a father's love for his son, and subsequently, for his wife and daughter.

Valese sighed and put an arm around the thin woman. "You need to have some fun, honey, or you're going to fade away. Trust me. I've been there."

"Fun?" Marron barely hid her unlady-like snort. She used to have fun: the ballet, swing clubs, shopping trips, exotic vacations... But not any more. She didn't dare try and get money from her account or use one of her credit cards. The Colds would find out and track her down.

"Honey, yes, fun." Valese cast a critical eye on her. "Let me take you out tonight. I know a good club."

"Valese, thanks, but I don't have a lot of—"

"It's on me, Mare. And I won't take no for an answer, so you might as well agree," Valese said, smiling. It wasn't right that such a pretty young girl looked so tired and sad all the time.

Marron looked down with a quiet sigh. Well, what would it hurt? No one had come pounding on her door so far, and it would be nice to actually go out... "What should I wear?"

Valese grinned and hugged her. "Just meet me here at eleven. Don't worry about clothes, okay?"

"Um, okay. Eleven." Marron bit her bottom lip as the older woman practically pranced away. Just where was Valese taking her? Well, I guess there's no sense in worrying about it. I trust her. She began to load her tray up again, thankful that the usually loud and obnoxious clientele was more subdued today. And Nappa and Nick had yet to darken the doorway of the dismal coffee shop again. I guess I can still thank Trunks for that.

She did wish that things could be different between them. She missed him, and even though she thought herself ridiculous for it, she couldn't help it. He had saved her, and quieted and eased her fears for a night. Oh, why couldn't he have understood?She wanted to feel his arms around her again, and his kisses... No. There's no sense in thinking about that nightor him. I know he's not thinking about me. He probably hates me.

The thought just about brought tears to her eyes, but two weeks of hard practice kicked in, and she forced them back. She wouldn't cry for him. It was pointless, and useless. She had told him she didn't need or want him or his protection, so why would he care about her?

"Mare, those guys are gettin' restless," Valese said, throwing a hand over her shoulder at the rowdy table. "And Yamcha's on the rampage."

"So what else is new?" Marron asked bitterly, and headed out to the table she was currently covering. No, she had no time for Trunks Briefs.

"Briefs, what is your deal?"

Trunks blinked and looked at Goten, who had a serious glint in his cobalt blues. "What?"

"Yeah, exactly: what? Shouldn't you be leaping and dancing since we found out it was a DiLiar who shot Gohan?" Goten asked, his tone low and cool.

"So?" Trunks shrugged. "Until we know which one it was, we can't act. Why should I be happy about that? And anyway, what about the Dahlia murder? Do we have anything else on that?" Manchester Dahlia had been a major player in the illegal firearms market, and his brutal murder had rocked the New York City underworld.

Goten sighed and drank some of his Coke. He glanced around, noting the lack of customers in the restaurant. It was pretty late. "No, not yet. But you and I both know it must be connected to the mob, and Gohan's death." Goten hesitated to ask his next question. "Look, Trunks, I know you and Gohan were really close, so what I need to ask is going to sound disrespectful—"

"Just ask."

Goten nodded. "Did Gohan ever, that you know of, take money from an outside source?" He kept his voice low, not wanting to indirectly draw his friend's ire, but saw that the question was enough for that.

"What? Son, are you serious? Gohan was the most honorable guy I knew! Of course he wasn't taking money!" But even as he passionately defended his deceased partner, his mind jumped back to several instances where Gohan would leave while they were working a case, saying he had "other business" to attend to. No. No way. I would've known if Gohan was on the take! Wouldn't I?He thought of what Marron had told him, and his blood iced as his stomach clenched. Had Gohan known Marron's father?

Goten was watching Trunks closely, and he saw the struggle his friend was going through, though his face remained impassive. The storm was all in his dark blue eyes. "Trunks, I have to know. There's word going around the precinct that someone's paying off cops."

Trunks looked up at his friend. "And you really think Gohan was taking money?" His voice was frigid, his eyes even more so. Goten's own ebony eyes narrowed.

"Yeah, maybe. Maybe he was, and was getting tired of it, and was going to blow the whistle on whoever was doing it. I mean, wouldn't that make sense? His murder was just so, well, random. Especially for a cop." He could tell Trunks was really thinking about what he was saying.

"Don't you think I would've known, though? We were partners. We talked," Trunks argued, keeping his tone quiet. It wouldn't do for anyone to overhear them. Especially this conversation.

Goten shook his head. "Not necessarily. Partners don't talk about everything, Briefs."

Trunks had to concede that that was true. But still, taking money from the mob was, well, it was such a horrible thing to do. Could Gohan really have been capable of doing that? Even as much as he hated to think about it, a part of him had to realize that it was possible. And there was only one way to find out if Gohan had done it. Trunks lifted his gaze back to Goten's, and when he spoke, his voice was cold with grim bitterness.

"I'll check out his apartment, get his old records. If he was doing something illegal, I'll find out about it," the Japanese detective promised, and Goten took a deep breath.

"His stuff will still be there, you think? I mean, it's been, what—"

"It will be. His ex didn't want any of his things, and she paid the apartment manager extra to keep his place."

"Weird. Why pay rent for a dead guy?" Goten's voice was musing, and Trunks's Prussian blues narrowed in thought. It was odd; at the time, in his deep grief, he hadn't paid much attention to it. Now, though, it was definitely worth investigating. "Hey, I know that crazy look in your eyes. You want some company on this one? It could get a little wild," Goten said, a twinkle in his eyes.

Trunks almost smirked. Son could read him pretty well. "Yeah. But if the Chief asks, you went alone. He's still not happy about me coming back this soon."

"Yeah, I know. And don't worry, mum's the word. Come on." Goten laid a five on the table and stood up, shrugging into his black and gray Columbia. The early November air was chilly, and he didn't like being cold. Trunks got up and pulled on his worn leather jacket, tossing down a five as well. They left the restaurant, drawing looks from every woman in the vicinity.

"Look, Goten, I've got something to do now. Let's meet—"

"Nah, I'll come with you. No buts," Goten added, knowing Briefs would argue. He pretty much argued anything and everything. And besides, he wanted to keep a little closer tabs on his friend. Trunks wasn't completely invincible, like he wanted everyone to believe.

Trunks sighed, as if letting Goten go with him was a great inconvenience. "Fine, but no questions. Understand? Absolutely none."

"Alright, alright, gees! Lay off, Trunks. No questions. Nada," Goten said with a scowl and threw his hands in the air. "You could be a tiny bit more trusting, ya know. We've known each other since we were thirteen."'

Trunks did smirk then. Son was right, but what he had to do would undoubtedly draw questions he wasn't ready to answer. He wasn't even sure why he was doing what he'd been doing for two weeks. It wasn't like she needed him – she'd said as much that early morning in his apartment. Still, he couldn't turn his back on her, no matter what her father had been doing.

The night air was stinging as they hailed a cab, completely unaware of the shadow that stood watching them from a nearby alley.

"You're sure? They won't move in on us?" Hercule asked, looking hard at the youth before him. The young man nodded, his vivid forest eyes hidden by long bangs. Hercule scowled. He was never quite sure he could trust the kid, even if he was a DiLiar. "Alright. I want you to shadow Turles tonight. I want to know exactly what Cold is doing. If you pick up a lead on the girl, go after her. Understand?"

"Yes." The word was softly-spoken, with no emotion. He had little use for it, though he was as full of emotion as any other normal person. He left quietly, quickly, anxious to get this night over with. He hated shadowing, even though he was excellent at it. They called him "Panther," because like that mysterious jungle Valese, he was black stealth, unseen and unheard until he chose to strike. And he always got the job done, no matter the difficulties or circumstances.

Marron Chesnut. Of course he knew who she was, knew her father's role among the Cold mob, knew her brother was being held prisoner until they could convince him to sign over the Chesnut fortune. Then, of course, he'd be of no use, and they'd kill him.

And Hercule wants me to hand Marron over to him to use as leverage against King Cold.He had no grand illusions as to her being released after her part had been performed. Oh, no. She'd be considered a threat, and after being passed around to Hercule's men, she'd be killed. Probably dumped in the ocean; Hercule always figured it was a great place to sink a dead body. It disgusted him, but he was a DiLiar, and it was expected of him to do his part.

But can I honestly help end this girl's life? She had no connection to her father's crimes, or her brother's.With a sigh he got on his motorcycle and pulled on the black helmet with Valese's eyes on the front of it. It might have been a little pretentious of him, but he liked it. After all, he was Panther. Starting up the Ninja, he rolled smoothly into traffic and headed toward Turles's meeting place. It was in Brooklyn, and it wouldn't take him long to get there, not riding the bike.

Which was good, because he couldn't be late, not for this meeting, not tonight. A young woman's life was depending on him to get all the information he could.

Goten stood in the darkened alley, arms crossed over his chest, and wondered why on earth he was here. Right here. In an alleyway. A place where criminals crowded to. Trunks was next to him, his Prussian blues trained on a seedy little coffee place across the street. He was tense, way tenser than he'd been on the way here. Goten shifted slightly. "So, uh, what gives, Briefs?"

Trunks didn't have to answer, because at that point the door to Yamcha's Plate opened and Marron stepped out, looking even tinier than the night before. She had her coat pulled tight around her to ward off the cold air, and Trunks's eyes narrowed slightly. He didn't like her working there, not at all. He knew the kind of men that hung out in places like that.

"Nice." Goten let out a low whistle. "That why we're here?" Trunks gave a nod and began following the girl, but he maintained his distance, surprising his friend. "So, um, why aren't we—"

"No questions, Goten," Trunks interrupted with a low growl. He wasn't ready to answer anything. He only knew that he wanted to make sure Marron got home safely, so he'd been following her every night. It was crazy. Why should he care? Her family was, essentially, part of the Cold mob. And yet, he just couldn't turn his back on her. She didn't belong here, and he felt he had to protect her. I promised I would.

Marron moved quickly down the street, much to Trunks approval. She wasn't inviting trouble. Goten was full of questions, but knew Trunks wouldn't answer any of them, even if he let Goten ask them. Who is this girl? Why is Trunks shadowing her? And why is a fox like her working in a place like Yamcha's?Trunks came to a stop and watched as Marron went into the old apartment building. He wouldn't leave until he saw her light come on. When it did, he took a deep breath and turned away. Mission accomplished. She's safe for tonight.But the worry that had been dogging him for two weeks wouldn't leave him. It was cold, and her apartment wasn't exactly in the best of shape to battle the bitter New York winter that was fast approaching. But what can I do? Just barge in and tell her I'm fixing up the place? She'd never let me, not after the things I said to her.

"So..."

"What?" Trunks glanced at Goten as they walked back the way they had come.

"Who is she?" Goten asked, his voice low and firm. He knew Trunks hadn't had a girlfriend in two years; the Japanese man was very closed-mouth about his relationships, but Goten knew it hadn't ended well. Since then, the stoic young detective had pretty much avoided any type of contact with the opposite sex. When Trunks volunteered no information other than a noncommittal shrug, Goten grabbed his elbow to stop him.

Trunks sighed, annoyed. "You promised no questions, Goten."

"That was just because I wanted to come with you. So fess up, Trunks. Is she your new girl?" Goten's ebony eyes were penetrating, driving, and Trunks's heart pounded hard for a moment.

"She could have been," he whispered, then his eyes grew darker and he broke Goten's hold. "Come on. We've got business to get to." He strode off, his countenance grim, and Goten could only stare after him. What had brought about the abrupt change in demeanor? And why was Trunks looking after the girl if they weren't dating? Shaking his chestnut head in confusion, he followed his friend.

He would get answers, no matter what he had to do.

"My men tracked down your latest lead and found nothing." Turles's voice was low, and his dark hazel eyes held a tint of coolness. "Your father won't wait much longer." Freiza Cold turned to face him, a slight smile on his face.

"All we need is a lucky break, Turles. The girl can't hide forever."

"And you really think she's hiding out in the Bronx?" Turles shifted in his chair. The old warehouse was drafty and completely uncomfortable, but there were very few people who would want to come in. Hence, it was a perfect place for the Cold family to run operations from.

"Where else would she go? She is obviously too smart to stay in Manhattan or Long Island, and our men have already cleared Brooklyn." Freiza threw down his cigarette and stamped out its lingering warmth with a black Italian leather boot heel.

"I suppose so." Turles glanced around, wrinkling his nose a little. "And when we find the Chesnut girl?"

Freiza's gray eyes darkened into storm clouds. "We rough her up. I want her terrified, Turles. Then we take her to Sharpner, and force him to sign the papers. It should be that easy."

"You don't think it will be?" Turles trained his hazel eyes on his best friend.

"I think Hercule will try to interfere. My father warned me to watch him," Freiza said, and turned away. "Come, my friend. We can wait in a more comfortable place for news from our men." Turles got up to follow him, wondering just when they would find Sharpner's little sister. He knew it wouldn't be pretty when they did; Freiza had been searching for nearly eight weeks for the young woman, and his temper was wearing thin and hot.

Ah well. She is nothing but means to an end.Turles smiled a little. Means to a very large end.

Burter DiLiar watched the two men and their four guards get into the black limo and shook his head, disgusted. He hadn't learned anything, other than Freiza thought Hercule might try something, and the young Cold was right about that.

But I shouldn't warn Hercule. Maybe he'll do something stupid and get himself killed – no. That's not right for me to do. I don't want any more bloodshed, especially onmy hands. The tall young man sighed and jumped from his hiding place in the rafters when he got low enough. They hadn't suspected a thing. That made him smirk a little. He did enjoy his abilities to blend in wherever he was.

So what do I do? Hercule wants results. And I have nothing to give him. Knowing his boss wouldn't want to see him tonight, he decided to go and let down a little at Prancers, a night club where someone could just disappear for awhile.

"Valese! I am not wearing these!" Marron yelled from the staff bathroom at Yamcha's. "No way!"

Valese laughed. "Oh come on, girl. You've got a beautiful figure. Why not show it off a little?" the older woman encouraged. "Come on out. Please?" At her persistence, Marron finally came out. Valese squealed. "Mare, honey, you are gorgeous!"

Marron glanced down at the light blue mid-riff cami and miniscule black mini, then at her friend, her nose wrinkled. This wasn't her normal type of attire, not even when she was going clubbing with Pan. "I don't know, Valese. I'm not really comfortable—"

"Honey, you look fine. Now come on." Valese wasn't about to let Marron change back into her jeans. Marron reluctantly followed her, her clothes tucked into an old backpack. She could tell Valese was anxious to get where they were going. And yet, she felt close to throwing a tantrum and refusing to go. Was she crazy? What if someone from the Cold mob saw her? "Mare? You feel alright?"

There was such genuine concern in Valese's voice that Marron couldn't bear to lie and tell her she was sick. And she certainly couldn't tell her the real reason she didn't really want to go. "I'm fine, Valese. So, um, where are we going?"

Valese's eyes twinkled as she grinned. "A really fun club. I have a friend who works the bar there. She's about your age, actually." Marron just nodded, not knowing what to say, and Valese seemed happy with that response. They walked for roughly three blocks, and then Marron saw a bright neon sign that read "Prancers" in bold pink.

Prancers? I've heard of it before, but where? Maybe someone at Yamcha's mentioned it to me?The bouncer was very large and tough-looking, but seemed to melt when he saw Valese. "Hey Valese. Long time. Where ya been?" he rumbled, scooping her up into a hug.

"Been busy, Mike. This is Marron," Valese said after he set her down. Marron smiled up at the big man, but he merely grunted at her.

"Go on in, babe. Have fun."

"Thanks, Mike." Valese grabbed Marron's hand and pulled her into the club, instantly waving at someone who Marron couldn't see. The place wasn't overly crowded, and Marron wasn't sure whether to be happy or upset by that. Valese took her to the bar and made her sit. "I'll get us something to drink." Valese moved away, toward the end of the bar, where a petite young woman with black curly hair was waiting on two men.

"Valese! Oh my gosh! It's been forever!" The girl leaned over the bar to hug Valese, and Marron smiled half-heartedly. It must be nice to be so loved, she mused. Not that her friends didn't love her, but they were just never that enthusiastic.

"Videl! How are you? Come on. I want you to meet a friend of mine," Valese said, pointing toward Marron. Videl stared at the honey-haired girl, a tiny frown on her face. "Marron!" Valese waved at her, and Marron sighed and walked over to them. "Videl, Marron Chesnut."

"It's nice to meet you, Videl," Marron said, her voice as warm as she could make it. The dark-haired girl narrowed her eyes slightly.

"Hey." Then, "So, Valese, what's new? Have you see Nappa or Nick lately? I guess some guy roughed 'em up pretty badly," Videl said, and she glanced at Marron, a cool light in her pretty sapphire eyes. Marron's own gentian orbs narrowed a little.

"Oh really? No wonder I haven't seen 'em around," Valese said, but there was no concern in her voice. They weren't particularly special to her. And especially not after the way Nappa had treated Marron. Punks like him and Nick usually deserved what they got. She told Videl as much, and the young bar tender nodded.

"Yeah, their kind disgusts me," Videl agreed, then turned to Marron, who regarded her warily, unsure of what she would say. "So, you and Valese been friends long?" she asked, and there was a friendlier note in her voice.

"About a month or so," Marron said, smiling, relaxing. Valese grinned and put an arm around her shoulders.

"Cool." Videl nodded at some young women further down the bar and said, "I'll be right back." She moved away to attend her customers, and Valese gave Marron a squeeze before letting go.

"She's a sweetie. A little jealous, maybe, of her friends, but harmless," Valese explained nonchalantly. Nothing ever seemed to faze her. "Oh, hey, I see someone I need to talk to. I'll be right back."

"Oh, um, okay." Marron watched her friend dance into the crowd and disappear, and tried not to feel alarmed. She was a big girl. She could handle this. As her gaze swept the crowd, her eyes connected, in stunning clarity, with a set of forest green ones, and she jumped a little. The young man staring back at her never flinched. She had never seen him before, and his direct scrutiny of her was quite unnerving. Who was he?

Videl came strolling back and glanced over at the guy Valese's friend was looking at. Her sapphire blues widened, just a little. She knew this guy. He's a DiLiar. And he's pretty interested in Marron."So, you know him?" she asked, as casually as she could. The honey-blonde shook her head, breaking the eye contact to look at Videl.

"No, not at all. Do you?" Marron asked, interested. Her heart was racing from the intentness of his gaze. It's like being stared at by a wild animal, she mused, a little bit worried.

Videl considered before answering. The DiLiars worked for the Cold family, even though they were themselves powerful. In fact, second in mob muscle only to their employer. So if a DiLiar was looking for her, Marron was probably in danger. But if she interfered, would that put herself in danger, too? Aw, screw it. "He's a DiLiar," she said, trying to sound quiet, though with Kanye West blaring over the speakers that was pretty hard to do.

Marron pursed her lips, thinking. DiLiar? That doesn't sound—"Oh." The word wasn't said so much as breathed, and Videl looked at her with concern. "I-I have to leave," Marron stammered, getting to her feet.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Videl told her, her black curls dancing as she shook her head. "You're safer here, if he's looking for you."

"Tell Valese I had to run." Marron got up and started toward the doors to the club. No, this probably wasn't her smartest idea ever, but she refused to endanger anyone other than herself. This was her family's problem, and she was determined to keep it that way. Besides, the only person she had told about her problem had completely turned away from her.

Trunks...

"Mare? Where are you going?" Valese was next to her, reaching out to grab her arm. "What's going on?" She was so concerned that Marron felt bad for keeping the truth from her, but what else could she do? "Videl said a DiLiar's been watching you. Honey, why is the mob watching you?"

So Videl opened her big mouth. Should I lie? But seeing Valese's narrowed eyes and determined look, Marron knew that wasn't an option. "Um...Valese, there's something you should know about me, but I don't want to tell you here," she finally said, glancing over her shoulder. The young man with green eyes was nowhere in sight.

"Okay. You can come home with me tonight then. No arguing," Valese added in a stern voice. "Come on." She waved toward Videl, then took Marron's arm and led her out of the club. They walked fast, as if Valese sensed her younger friend didn't want to be out in the open.

Valese's apartment building was in much better repair than Marron's, and her third story apartment was nice and cozy, with soft lighting and comfortable, if worn, furniture. "Make yourself at home, Mare," Valese directed and stepped into the small kitchen. "You thirsty?"

"Um, yeah," Marron said, trying to comprehend everything going on. She couldn't help but notice that Valese's speech wasn't nearly as rough as it was at work, but couldn't figure out why. And that man at the club – If he turns me over to the Colds, I'm dead.Suddenly, her chest felt too tight to breathe, and she had to sit before she collapsed.

"Mare?" Valese handed her a glass of dark pop and sat down next to her. "You feel alright, honey?"

"Valese, I'm in danger. Did you hear about the Chesnut double murder?" When her friend nodded, Marron told her the story, praying that when she heard all of if, Valese wouldn't turn her back on her.

She realized, later, that she needn't have worried. "Oh, Marron, I am so sorry! And you've been hiding out over here and putting up with Yamcha—" Valese got to her feet, a serious glint in her periwinkle blue eyes. "I think you should move in here with me. It would be safer—"

"Valese, thank you, but no. I won't drag you any further into this." Marron tried to stand up, but Valese stood blocking her way, arms crossed over her chest.

"Marron, you need help. And I'm going to help you, so deal with it," she said, her voice harsher than she'd intended. Marron looked down, looked defeated, and Valese sighed. "Mare, you can't beat the mob. It's pretty impossible. But I can at least help you get somewhere safer than here—"

"Valese, where would that be? The Colds have contacts all over the world!" Marron couldn't stop the tears that had been back-building since she'd left Trunks's apartment two weeks before. Valese sat beside her and reached an arm around the girl's shaking shoulders, drawing her close. Where could Marron go? She was right – the Cold family didn't just have muscle in the U.S., they had muscle internationally.

"Well, first off, you're going to move in with me. After that, well, we'll figure out something."

"Okay." Marron knew she couldn't win the argument, so she didn't try. But her heart felt heavy, heavier than it ever had. I won't be near Trunks anymore. I'll probably never see him again. Her dismal thoughts pummeled her heart, but she couldn't cry. Not anymore. There was no point. He would never help me, anyway.It was time to forget him and move on.