Walking inside the door, Connor tried to run through his mind how he would explain this. Smecker said that it would be a difficult job. They'd done nine guys before, but going into a bar was different. An unknown amount of men in a room who might or might not have guns had never appealed to him. Nobody would take it well when they found out that they hadn't managed to do the job completely, that they had actually brought home two hostages (and there was no other word for them but hostages). Da was going to have a fit, that much he knew.
"Connor, my boy." He said, rising from the kitchen table where he had been seated, "How did everything go? How was the assignment?" A sort of grin spread across his face, the sort that bordered between being sheepish and a grimace.
"As well as could be expected, Da." Connor said, "There were probably around twenty something guys. We went in, got out. Found two people hiding along the way." He added, his voice trailing off as he spoke these words.
If there ever was a man who it was necessary to read, it was Connor's father. While his face was most of the time impassive, there were moments when it would show slight flashes of thoughts or emotions. Most of them were simple and lacking in danger, but there were a few where you wanted to step back and give him some room. This was one of those moments. His eyes growing wide, Connor followed his gaze over to the doorway where Murphy and the other two stood.
"Yer brought them back?" Connor held back a cringe as his father roared, "Murphy! Get them inside right now." Murphy escorted the two inside, closing the door behind them. It was a moment of relief, a moment of relief that was short lived as Connor felt a pair of hands gripping his shoulder. "What the hell were you boys thinking?" he shouted, shooting a glance over at Leila and Vincent. "She's an innocent and he shouldn't have made it out of the god damned room." His eyes wandered over to the young man as he noticed his shoulder. 'And fucking Christ, he was hit?" Connor and Murphy's father mumbled, shaking his head.
"He was." A voice chimed in, "And he needs to see a doctor." Connor's eyes fell upon the young woman as she repeated her demand again. Stepping out of the way, he watched as Da approached the two, stepping up to the young woman. Connor knew his father would never strike a woman, but there was just something about his eyes, their whites seemed more vibrant, more insane than before. There was only one other time he had seen him like this, and that was when he was at the courthouse, placing a gun to the back of a man's head.
But much to his surprise, his eyes softened as he reached the young woman. "Aye. That he does, lass. But I'm afraid we can't bring him." He explained. The look of compassion spread across his face as he watched the young woman straighten herself up, lengthening her spine in defiance. "It would be a very unwise decision for all of us, to walk into a hospital with a man who had taken a bullet to his shoulder. People would ask questions. And after all yer've seen, I don't want yer answerin' them."
"I will not let Vincent die because one of your sons shot him." She hissed, stepping back towards her cousin. "If you guys won't bring him to the hospital, so heaven help me, I will." Connor felt her eyes bore into him, a sort of fire burning at their gaze. Unadulterated hatred in its purest form.
Holding up a hand in protest, Leila hushed, listening as the father spoke. "He won't die there, lass. I can promise yer that." Turning around, he looked Murphy dead in the eye. "Murph. I need yer to take this young lass aside for a moment."
Stepping forward, Murphy gently placed a hand on Leila's arm, leading her towards another door. Turning his attention to Connor, his father snapped, "Now, I need yer to go and get me my bag."
His attention was now returned to the young man who had been standing by the girl's side. "And lad, Vincent I think she said your name was. Everything's going to be fine." Looking him over, these words just didn't seem to fit. His face was waxy, his lips losing their color; his pupils had dilated to an unnatural size; and he was shaking. "I'm goin' to fix yer up. I've done it before" he added, sensing a pair of eyes bore into his shoulderblade, "It might take a while, but before long, yer'll be back to normal."
Returning with the bag, glanced over at his brother, watching as he lead the young woman into their bedroom. Da quickly snatched the bag up from his hands, opening it up and turning his attentions back to Vincent. "I'm going to need yer to take off yer shirt, lad." He said, fully taking in the extent of the damage as he did. "And I think I should warn yer, this is going to hurt."
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While it was strange, a wave of hope swept over Leila the moment she had stepped out from underneath that table. Vincent was like her other half, a twin if she ever had one, and he was alive. The way the brothers looked at him told Leila that he shouldn't be, but that didn't matter; all that mattered was that Vincent was alive. He had always been something of a rational voice to her, calling her back from the other world that she seemed to permanently reside in to reality. His words seemed to drown out the despair she had at leaving a piece of her artwork behind, pulling her yet again back into reality. She would do anything for him, and anything to keep him alive.
"He needs medical attention." Those words had flooded through her mind from the moment she had seen the blood on her cousin's shirt. First to the brothers, then to their father. "He's going to die without it." There was no way she would allow him to be murdered, especially by two men so heartless. She wanted to scream as her demand was brushed aside at the bar, she wanted to somehow hurt those two as much as they had her and her cousin; she wanted them dead.
But the older man seemed different. There wasn't the same cool detachment in his eyes. Instead Leila found a sort of compassion, no matter how slight it might be. "He'd promised to help, how Leila didn't know, but at the moment she was willing to believe anything. Feeling a hand on her arm, she instinctively jerked away, breaking out of its grip, but again it came, gently placing its fingers against her forearm.
"Yer goin' to need to come with me, lass." It was a different voice this time, softer, it's lilt less prominent. Glancing back over her shoulder, Leila took one final glance at Vincent. He would be okay. She told herself. He's been through worse; he'll be okay.
Following the gentle tugs on her arm, Leila found herself at yet another door. As if flew open, she was lead inside, her muscles freezing. A bedroom. After all that had happened today, she was in a bedroom. She backed up against the closed door as she saw the young man take a seat on one of the beds. Reaching around his waist, Leila tried to control herself as she saw him remove a belt. Two guns. A sense of fear rose over her as she watched him pull out two more. Alone in a room with a man with four guns, that was the last place she wanted to be at the moment. Sensing a set of eyes on her, she reset her face in a look of defiance, her emerald green eyes meeting his stormy blue ones, conveying nothing but loathing.
"There's no need for that there," he said, actually chuckling, "I'm not goin' to hurt yer. Have a seat. It might take a while and yer might get tired standing for so long."
Words from a captor were never to be believed, that was the thought that ran through her mind. They were heartless enough to kill family and friend, they'd have no pangs of guild over harming you, or worse. Her eyes traveled around the room. It was simple: wooden floor with wide boards, like those you would find in an older building, white walls, unadorned with any frames; two beds sat side by side, haphazardly made with a myriad of mixed-matched sheets; a single window sitting across the way. It was the window that caught her attention, the hazy glow of a street lamp catching against the glass and causing it to luminate a faint gold. Walking over, she rested her elbows against the sill, placing her hand in the palms of her hands.
Despite everything, Leila was still able to appreciate the majesty of he view before her. The haze of the lamps below provided a soft glow to the few passing people, their silhouettes outlined by the same golden glow that tinted the window. The rich reds and slates or the buildings soaked up this faint glow, making their colors even deeper. If life was a canvass, this was the sort of picture that she would paint. One untainted by corruption, of the majesty of what her freshman art teacher had called 'urban nature': the labyrinth of streets, the jungle of automobiles, the prides or people. It would be a canvass of the magnificence of human creativity, of the beauty in the nature they created with their minds and hands.
A scream quickly stifled brought her back to reality, a wave of concern washing over her as she jumped up from the window. Again, she felt a hand rest itself on her arm, steering her towards the bed. "Everything's going to be fine, lass." Whether Leila believed his words or not, she didn't know, but she did find herself sitting down, staring at a blank expanse of wall right beyond his head.
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"And I think I should warn yer, this is going to hurt."
No fucking shit. Hurt was an understatement. It felt like a thousand knives were stabbing him, carving off his very skin, but in all actuality, it was only one. One knife, digging into his shoulder, scooping out a piece of metal that had lodged itself in his muscle. He clenched his teeth shut, not wanting to cry out in pain. He had always seen pain as a weakness, and hated showing any signs of it. And besides, he shouldn't be worried on the pain of the moment as much as he should have the possible pain of the future. What was to happen to himself? To Leila? He'd seen her being lead through another door by one of the brothers from the bar. He only hoped that she was alright. All was silent but for the orders barked by the older man and the occasional input of the young man with him.
He didn't trust them. Well, he trusted the older man, but not the young one. It was the younger one, with the steel gray eyes and spiky light brown hair who had acted so roughly back there, who had never taken his gun off of the two of them. He had a sense of anger about him that struck Vincent as dangerous, and he had been around dangerous men before. In the corner of his mind, a slight clinking sound registered as the older man barked out for some needle and thread. That was when Vincent lost it, the sharp point diving in and out of his skin relentlessly made the pit of his stomach drop, his consciousness beginning to fade away.
The next thing he knew, a piece of fabric was gagging him. Biting down on it he tried to relieve the pain with his teeth, focusing all of his energy onto the cloth, his eyes clenched in pain.
Leilia. His mind fluttered, wondering what was happening to her. Little Bambina, more a sister than a cousin. She was always the one who managed to lift his spirits, a bright little puzzle box that he would never be able to figure out. Ever since they were young, it had always been the two of them, side by side, receiving the same praises, the same rebukes, eliciting the same laughs from people. It was as if he were looking into a mirror and saw himself in female form, and he didn't know what he would do without that reflection.
Bandages began to wrap around his shoulder as the cloth fell out of his mouth. "That should hold, there." A an older, raspy voice said, helping Vincent off the table. "Yer might not want to use that arm for a while, but it should heal."
Vincent knew he should have been grateful, but his mind was traveling around the room. These men, they were killers, murders. Cold and heartless. They'd killed several of his father's best men without so much as even a second thought. They couldn't be trusted.
"Leila." He demanded, "Where is she?"
He felt a set eyes bore on his back. Turning around, Vincent met the young man's gaze, returning it with the same look of hatred his cousin had given the man before. "I swear if you or your brother have laid a finger on her…"
"What?" the voice snapped, "it will be the last thing we ever do?" Connor said, a hint of sarcasm dripping into his words, "Now, there boy. Yer'e in no place to bargain like that; yer'e lucky you even made it out of the bar-thank your girl for that one." He said, jutting his head towards the door. His hand on the knob, he threw it open, casting a shadow in the doorframe.
"Leila."