Author's note: Hello! This fic has the smallest amount of viewers, but you guys send me the most private messages, it's insane lol. Anyway, sorry for the late update. I do hope you enjoy this chapter, keep in mind that it's 17 pages, so pace yourself! Also, we have TWO NEW CHARACTERS; for Gianni, imagine Chazz Palminteri, and for Santino, imagine Benicio del Toro. Enjoy

*Crazystar662, this is for you.

Tongue Slips & Omens

Dawn's early glow fell over Harlem. Nestled in the corner of an Italian bakery, Shades stared out the window, watching as a red-orange hue began to pour out across the sky. Though he never let on early mornings such a these were his favorite. Growing up on the streets, he had a number of close calls. After everything he had seen, everything he had experienced, it didn't matter how long the night stretched, he always made it through to see the dawn. Didn't take long for that dawn to become his testament of strength, his will to survive.

Resting back in his chair, he eyed the buildings across the street, eyes slowly roaming over the darkened storefronts. Mentally he went over his agenda for the day, primarily the meeting he was to have with Alexander Kuznetsov.

Kuznetsov was the head of the Russian Bratva, and one of the leading arms dealers on the East Coast. Paranoid to a fault, Kuznetsov always needed gentle handling, which meant Shades and his men would have to keep their movements and speech to a minimum least they wanted a bullet in their skull. After the meeting, Shades would then drop off Mariah's payment, giving her the extra cash and power she needed to muscle her way through the grim life that is politics. Next was a house call for Lawrence, and then…

The first rays of gold and yellow broke through the spaces of the buildings and poured out on his face. Despite the intense beauty of the light, Shades saw another shade, one far stronger. In his mind's eyes, the rays began to flow, curving into a voluptuous silhouette, where it then sparkled. It had only been a few days since the incident, but Joanne's image never left his mind. And it was there that he saw her, seeing not her dancing on the balcony, but sitting in his office, swallowed up in a plush leather chair…

…xXx…xXx…xXx…

"I don't make promises lightly."

Lifting her gaze from her trembling hands, Joanne followed the sound of Shade's voice.

Having escorted her to his office no more than an hour ago, he had since closed the club, phoning the police where she then gave a full report of what took place. What Joanne believed to be the doings of an honest, upright citizen, was nothing more than the work of a puppet and puppeteer; the cops who took the report were on Shades' payroll. And as sad as it may be, Shades knew that that was the only way she would receive justice. After all, how many crimes were reported in a day? How many men walked the streets looking just like her attacker? Sure the police might patrol area, just a few times to feel like they've done their job. But after that patrol ended, what then? The truth of the matter was that for better or worse Harlem watched over Harlem, the people looked out for and protected their own. Criminal or not, it was an oath that Shades took to heart.

"I'm sorry?" She called, all but buried in a brown leather chair.

"Promises," he reiterated, emerging from a small bathroom located just off to the side and drying his hands on a towel, "I don't make them lightly."

"I mean what I say, and say what I mean." He paused in his actions, his dark eyes, still uncovered since the incident, locking on hers as a ghost of a smile appeared on his lips. "Always." Sure there was always a double meaning to the man who cleverly weaved truth and lies, yet when he spoke he meant whatever he said… at least in that moment!

"I'll find him," he told her. "I promise."

Suddenly she grew skittish, peering around the office as though her attacker would appear at any moment. "D-do you think he's still out there?"

Shade's shook his head. "No. He's not."

"How can you be so certain?"

Because had you got the best of me, running would have been the next course of action, that and revenge. "He robbed and assaulted you. " A muscle in his jaw flexed, a red haze threatening to creep in from the corners of his sight. "…you got away."

Heading back toward the bathroom, he called over his shoulder, "There's no chance he would stick around to finish the job, that's not how a thief operates."

"And you know that how?"

Hearing the sharp suspicion in her voice he turned around.

Blood matted her hair along her temple, her dress was torn, feet bare and dirty. If her physical appearance wasn't enough to speak of the trauma she had experienced, her eyes were; they were as large and round as the moon, the lights from up above shining madly, making her image all the more haunting.

Seeing her like that made his gut tighten. Silently he vowed to torture the bastard responsible, to do to him what he had done to Cornell and countless others: to beat him within an inch of his life, to hit him again and again and again until his hand grew numb and his arm tired. Only then would he feel as though justice had been served. Though if he were, to be honest with himself, he knew there would always be anger inside for what had happened to her, which was a thought that puzzled him.

"I grew up in Harlem, living on the streets," he told her, surprising them both with that little detail of his life. "And I've…seen it all."

He shook his head slightly as though to shake away the memories. "The streets are unforgiving, every mistake yields a dangerous consequence. Just like your mistake was going out alone, his was underestimating you. Had he been a murderer and not a thief, you would be dead."

His eyes bore into her own. "Lucky for you Jo, you kept a clear head and fought him off."

Joanne sat up straighter, arms wrapping around herself as the full realization of her actions fell upon her. Instantly she felt nauseous. She could have been killed. Why the hell hadn't she waited for the taxi at the club, why had she gone on her own?!

"Don't beat yourself up," he said drawing her attention back as he made his way over to the wet bar.

"He may not end his career of petty theft," he sang, making her laugh despite herself, "but he'll think twice before he robs someone again." He glanced over his shoulder, eyes locking with hers. "At least I know I would."

She gnawed at her lower lip. "I'll remember that…"

"Here," he offered, holding in his hand a glass of amber liquid. "It's not enough to make you forget, only what you need to take the edge off."

Joanne stared at the drink with weary eyes. Wine was her drink of choice, along with fruit cocktails that held twice as much alcohol under the facade of sweetness and tang, allowing her to drink without feeling the burn she knew that glass held. Part of her said to decline the drink and keep that level head, as for the other part…

Assessing him with her eyes, she felt no fear. Sure he oozed a sort of dark charisma and towered over her, but he wasn't threatening. Hadn't he come to her aid? Furthermore, didn't he carry her, literally pick her up from the ground and carry her to the club and call the police, not leaving her side until her report was finished. This wasn't a man to fear but one she could trust, she told herself.

She accepted the glass. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he returned softly.

"Is whiskey alright?" He asked when she hesitated. "If you prefer something else, I could—" he broke off when she downed the double shot.

"Sweet Mother of God!" She shouted.

A vicious burn swept through her chest. Coughing she blinked back tears. How could people drink this stuff?!

"You were supposed to sip it," he told her, struggling to hold back his grin.

"Well—aghs!" She coughed again.

Swallowing back his laughter, he took the glass and inclined his head to the bar. "Can I make you another?" He asked teasingly.

She shook her head frantically. "Oh, God no!"

The corners of his mouth twitched. "Suit yourself."

"Tell me," he began setting the empty glass down on the desk, "where are you from, Jo?"

"Harlem," she answered.

"Which part?" He continued smoothly, ducking back into the bathroom.

"Morningside Heights."

Morningside Heights was home to a special sort of residents, mainly those who were college bound and with money to spare. "Impressive," he declared. "Let me guess, Barnard College?"

"No, Columbia."

Now he was really impressed. Just what was a Columbia grad doing in his club?

"What did you study?" He inquired next, voice rising slightly as he searched through the cabinets.

"You ask a lot of questions."

Smiling to himself, he moved a loaded Glock to the side and grabbed the first aid kit.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, entering the room with the first aid kit in hand. "Asking a lot of questions, well…" He gave her a devilish smile. "It's in my nature."

Letting the matter drop, he placed the kit on the desk and rifled through its contents.

Donning gloves, he inspected her face. "The smaller scratches will heal on their own, just need to keep em clean. As for that one… I'll need a closer look."

"Is that fine?" He asked as he approached her slowly.

Yeah, she could trust him. If only for the simple fact that he was cautious, acknowledging her sudden unease while simultaneously respecting her boundaries while he tried to aid her.

Pulling her lips into a smile, she waved him on. "That will be alright."

Standing before her, he reached out and cradled her face in his hands. His heat pierced through the gloves, warming her skin. His voice lowered an octave becoming husky. "Let me know if anything I do hurts."

Joanne's lips parted at his words. If she hadn't have taken that drink, she would have sworn there was a double meaning to his words, a promise for something to come.

Gathering her wits, she cleared her throat. "O—ok."

He worked as though he had all the time in the world. Gingerly he gripped her chin, turning her head this way and that, studying her with an unblinking eye. Twice he caught her curious eye, staring at her until she felt her face heat up and she had to peel her eyes away. Heaven help her, she would never get used to that stare.

"Is it bad?" She asked filling the silence between them. "It's bad, isn't it? That's why you're not saying anything."

His thumb swept along her brow soothingly, once, twice, a third time. "No," he answered at last. "It's not bad at all."

Releasing her, he retrieved gauze and saline from the kit. He instructed for her to keep her head tilted back. "I'm going to flush it out. It shouldn't sting," he rushed to add.

He moved to stand beside her chair. "So you grew up in Morningside Heights, went to Columbia, but have no Harlem accent. How'd that happen?"

"My father took on a new job when I was young, packed us up and moved out to Los Angeles. I came back for school."

"Didn't want to stay?"

A wistful look fell over her. "I made plans to, however, life got in the way. A year or so after graduation I moved back home."

Silently he reflected on her words.

Moving around to the other side he carefully flushed the wound, gently cleaning the area around it. "What did you study?"

"Psychology."

He tossed the soiled gauze in the trash and applied ointment on the wound. "That's a pretty extensive field, what's your specialty?"

"Behavioral Psychology."

"And do you have your own practice or work for an agency?"

"How do you know all of this?" She asked suddenly.

Placing a band-aid over her injury, he removed his gloves. "Know all of what?"

She pointed to her bandaged temple. "This." She grinned. "You don't look like a doctor or a nurse." Her eyes fell to his hands.

Before Shades could pinpoint her next move, her hands shot out and gripped his. Stunned by her action, Shades was helpless to do anything other than what she asked. Eyes glued to her face, he watched as she narrowed her eyes, her hawk-eyed gaze roaming over his hands.

Humming to herself she traced a nasty scar on the back of his right hand with her fingertip. "I knew it," she spoke aloud.

"Know what?" He heard himself asking.

Her eyes found his. He expected to see pity or even disgust, but instead, he saw something akin to pride.

Eyes glittering, she eyed his scarred knuckles once more and said, "you're a fighter."

"I mean, I should have realized in the alley, but…" Laughing softly, she shook her head."I know I was a little high up on adrenaline, but you were able to keep up with my footwork—which is no easy feat."

Pausing, she studied him. "Where did you learn to box?"

No one had ever asked him that. Everyone simply assumed that he had learned everything he knew from the streets. While the basics could be learned that way, his footwork proved otherwise, proof that he had stepped into the ring at some point in time.

"Was it your dad?" She asked when he remained silent.

Shades shook his head no.

Absentmindedly, her thumb traced the scar on the back of his hand. "Hmm…older brother?" She inquired next.

"Anacleto wasn't much of a fighter."

The second the words left his mouth, he wanted to pull them back from the air and swallow them. Never had he let such a vital piece of information slip. Never.

"Anacleto? Your brother's name is Anacleto?" Her lips curved into a genuine smile. "What kind of a name…" Her words trailed off as her smile fell from her face. "Shades?"

He was staring right at her, no, he was staring through her.

At the slip of his brother's name, Shades began to disassociate. It was like she didn't exist anymore, all he could see was beat-up red sneakers and blood-stained jeans. That death, Cleto's death, was the catalyst to Shade's downfall, the final straw that forced him to adapt to the criminal underworld.

"Shades," she called again. Releasing his hands, she rose to her feet. "Shades." No response.

He inhaled sharply.

Pulled from his thoughts, he blinked her into focus and felt his breath flee his body. She was standing on tiptoe, her hands cradling his face, eyes focused on his own, seeing… everything.

Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Are you alright?"

Desperately Joanne tried to decipher the flurry of emotion that swept through his unguarded eyes. Shock, anger, pain… shame? All of it came and went so fast that she didn't know if it was really there or imagined.

"What's wrong?" She asked, fear creeping into her voice as her eyes darted over his visage.

Pity. After his mishap he expected to see pity or at the very least hear a false apology for having brought up bad memories, instead, he saw concern, genuine concern. It shook him to the core.

"I'm fine," he said at once.

Pulling her hands away from his face, he took a step back. "Really, I'm alright." He cleared his throat. "It's been a long night, my mind slipped."

"Are you sure, you didn't look—" he held up a hand, effectively silencing her.

"Joanne, I'm fine," he stressed.

Silently she watched as those eyes of him became guarded once more, his annoyance disappearing with all the other emotions she saw.

Giving her a wide berth, he picked up his discarded jacket and shrugged it on. It took every ounce of control not to throw her out the door, more importantly, to not threaten her, to force her to never repeat the name she had heard.

"C'mon," he called, holding the door open for her. "Let's get you home."

Wordlessly she had followed him out the door and into the car. Not a word was spoken between them, and for that he was grateful. How many years had passed without him mentioning that name and in one night, it rolled so effortlessly off his tongue. You would have thought he took a brick wall to the face, not her.

"This it?" He asked when he pulled up to an old brownstone.

"Yeah."

He surprised her by cutting off the engine and coming around to her door. "Will you be alright?"

After what had transpired, she didn't know if he was being sincere or issuing a formality."Mhm. Thank you, Shades."

Closing the door behind her, he watched as she all but hauled ass to the front door.

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask how she was going to get inside. Leaning against the car door he watched as she reached into her coat pocket only to curse under her breath. "Dammit!"

"Need help?"

"No," she snapped.

His eyebrows rose to his temples when he saw her reach into a potted plant and remove a stone, opening it to retrieve a spare key.

Eyes darting from left to right he shook his head. "You've been out of Harlem for far too long, Jo."

"What was that?" She asked looking up to find him making his way back to the driver side.

"Every mistake yields a consequence," he answered. "Be sure to find a new place for that spare key."

Licking his lips, he looked down the darkened street. Let her go, leave it alone. Nothing good will come of it, and you already slipped up. Let. It. Go.

"Get some rest. I'll come by in a few days to discuss our arrangement."

She was turning into a broken record. "Get some rest? You'll come by in a few days to discuss our arrangement?" He nodded his head. "What arrangement?"

…xXx…xXx…xXx…

Shades smirked as her cry of outrage echoed in his mind. Oh, he never forgot about his sunglass, even with his slip he had no intention of letting the matter drop. It was the principal of the matter, he told himself. Purely principal. So why was he so conflicted?

Anacleto was never far from his mind. And though he hadn't spoken the name aloud in years, he always believed it would take a great act to do so. It had come from him so smoothly, naturally, flowing from his lips like honey. Anacleto. He had given her two details of his life like they were nothing, the first that he grew up in Harlem, more specifically on the streets, and second, that he had a brother. While the first could be dismissed, the second proved to be a problem. Only a selected few new that name, any more and the world he had carefully built could crumble at his feet.

"Something on your mind?"

The smokey baritone broke Shades from his thoughts.

Sitting up straighter in his chair, Shades peered through white cigar smoke, gazing into the dark brown eyes of Giambattista "Gianni" Loretto.

Gianni Loretto owned Loretto Bakery in New York City. Despite the never ending chime of the gold bell above the door and the warm scent of Italian pastries, the bakery had a specific clientele. Oh, you were more than welcome to order a cannoli and a cappuccino to go, but you were never granted permission to make yourself comfortable, at least not for too long, meaning, if the staff said they were closing for the day, they were closed. Cause a scene and they would lock the doors so you couldn't leave, such was the way of life for an Italian family rooted deep in the mafia.

Having followed in both his father's and grandfather's footsteps, Gianni was a third generation Don who made his empire trafficking guns along the East Coast. I suppose it wouldn't take much to wonder how they trafficked their weapons, I mean, who doesn't love a good cupcake, especially if it delivers.

As a businessman, Gianni was as sharp as he was ruthless. No one crossed him. Ever. At least no one that lived to tell the tale. Yet more than a cunning businessman was a soul who did whatever he could for those whom he loved, his friends, family, and a special class of souls who bore a bond forged in bloodshed, which is where his son, Shades, fit into the picture. Mama Stokes may have given Shades his start but Gianni made him family.

"Wouldn't be plans for taking over Harlem, is it?" Gianni persisted when Shades gave no reply.

Sunlight shone through the window, hitting his salt and paper hair and highlighting the intensity of his dark eyes. Biting the end of his cigar, he pushed up the sleeves of his navy button down and leaned across the table.

Removing the cigar, he held it between two fingers and pointed it at Shades. "Are you trying to take over Harlem?" He asked pointedly.

Shades answer was quick."No."

Smoke rose to the ceiling. Letting the silence linger, Gianni narrowed his eyes at Shades. "You're a lot of things kid, but a bad liar ain't one of em."

"And what's the matter with you, you know better." He tipped his chin his shades direction. "Off."

Shades removed his sunglasses without question.

Gianni let out a low whistle when he caught sight of Shades' black eye. "See what happens when you try to take over Harlem?"

Shades barked a laugh. "Yeah… Well," he shrugged his shoulders, rubbing at his brow, "this ain't got nothin' to do with Harlem."

Gianni grunted in response. "Humph. If it ain't got nothin' to do with Harlem, what's the cause?"

Shades couldn't stop the twitch of his lips. All these years and Gianni was still protective of the little boy he had stumbled upon. It had been right after Mama stokes had died. Shades was old enough to know the ropes but too young to make himself known. Gianni took him in. His loyalty was proven time and time and again and each time he rose higher in the ranks. Had he had a drop of Italian blood in his veins, he knew Gianni would have made him his second. But because he was just a Puerto Rican kid from Harlem, he was given the respect and love from a father to son, which if you asked him was worth a hell of a lot more.

"This got anything to do with Alexander Kuznetsov?"

It should have come to no surprise that Gianni knew about his dealings, he was always three steps ahead of the game. Even after all this time Shades had no clue how Gianni got his information, many said he had ties with the FBI and CIA, but he couldn't be sure.

Knowing it would be pointless to deny it, Shades confessed. "No."

A hint of a smile came to Gianni's lips. "Are you sure, Hernan?"

Shades groaned inwardly have having been called by his given name. "Positive, Gianni."

Gianni tutted. "Gianni, c'mon, what are we? Gianni…" He shook his head disappointed.

Holding his hands up in surrender, Shades amended his words. "Sorry, pop."

"That's better."

Tapping his ashes into the tray, Gianni took a sip of his cappuccino, eyeing Shades from above the rim. "You gonna tell me about this deal or do I have to beat it out of you?"

On second thought, Shades did know how Gianni got his information, he was just, for lack of a better word, nosey as hell. "Same deal we established when I worked for Diamondback."

There was always something more. "How much does he want?"

Shades told him the price.

Gianni scoffed. "Fuckin' jerkoff. Ya know you could have come to me."

"Business has no place between family."

Pleased by the lesson that had been instilled in him, Gianni nodded his head approvingly. "While that may be true, you know if you ever need anything, anything," he stressed, "all you have to do is ask."

There wasn't a doubt in Shades' mind that if asked Gianni wouldn't lay waste to Kuznetsov's entire operation. Hell, a war had been brewing between the two for decades! Him going to Gianni would be the perfect excuse the older man needed to go to war.

"Thanks, pop, but I can handle it. Even with the slight increase…"

"Slight increase? That ain't no slight increase!"

"…I know the business," Shades declared. "I know how to run this operation like the back of my hand. Trust me. Everything you taught me isn't wasted, pop, I know how to play the game."

Running his fingertip along the edge of his cup, Gianni meditated on Shades' words. "You'll have to be careful," he warned him. "This whole…fiasco with Cage and Diamondback, it's got the city on edge." He looked to Shades. "The police, FBI, CIA, their gonna be breathin' down all our necks."

Shades had been thinking the same exact thing. A bulletproof man, and another who possessed weaponry far more advanced than the world had seen, it was enough to turn the world on its axis.

"Keep your circle small," Gianni instructed. "This deal between you and Kuznetsov it should be the only one—just for the time being. Kuznetsov's a paranoid lil prick, so he'll watch his end, but he'll have no problem seeing that your ass gets kicked, you understand?"

"I understand."

"To be honest, Hernan, Quincy is the only one I trust who's on your side."

Shades turned his attention Quincy who was sitting across Gianni's bodyguard, Santino, a handsome middle-aged gentleman who had to have the highest body count in the entire east coast.

Together the two killers were sharing a plate of pastries and in one vicious chess battle, one that Shades believed went on for months at a time as they took forever to make a move.

"I see things, and I hear even more," Gianni said bringing Shades' focus back to him. "Everyone has a price Hernan, and we're reaching the point where the US government is willing to pay any and everyone for information. So when I tell you to keep your circle small, I mean to put that shit in a line, you," he pointed at shades, "and him," he pointed to Quincy. "That's who you trust in your operation, no one else. Whoever you're bringing in, whoever you choose to replace, remember they weren't always there and can't be trusted."

Gianni was old school if you didn't shed blood together and on a regular fuckin' basis, then you weren't shit. Simple as that.

"Two is enough to take over a couple city blocks, but is it enough for a two-man crew to take over Harlem? I don't know."

Shades didn't hesitate. "It is when you have the Loretto family standing behind you."

Pride made Gianni's eyes grow warm. "And you do," he assured Shades.

Motioning for the waiter, he signaled for another cappuccino. "You're not a bambino anymore, I can't hold your hand even if I want to. So you do you what you have to do but lay low. Keep your ears and eyes open, and when the time comes, you make your move, and you strike. And once you strike…"

"…you keep on hitting," Shades finished.

"Exactly."

Chuckling to himself, Gianni sipped at his drink and leaned back in his chair. "That Russian bastard won't know what hit him, and Harlem won't either."

It would never be said but if Shades took control of Harlem, it would be an extension of Gianni's territory, mostly because Shades was considered an extension of Gianni. Such a thing could anger most men who were power hungry but Shades wasn't that type. He didn't want power, that is for people to fear him, he wanted control. Control is a funny thing when you don't have it you're a puppet on a string. But when the opportunity arises, when control is finally in your grasp, you realize your not the puppet, nor are you the one pulling the strings, but the craftsman, molding each doll as you see fit. And that's what he wanted: to run Harlem as he saw fit, smoothly, orderly like a well-oiled machine. And if he needed the Loretto name to do it, then so be it.

A calm acceptance of what was to come fell over the two men.

Stubbing out his cigar, Gianni folded his hands. "So," he began causally, "who's this girl that gave you the black eye?"

Shades choked on his coffee.

"Oh, it's just like I said," Gianni continued with an innocent shrug of his shoulders, "I see things, and I hear even more."

Cutting his eyes to Quincy, Shades received the man's slight head shake and knew that someone else had informed Gianni. Jesus, all he needed was for word to get out that he got his ass handed to him by a woman. Granted she was one hell of a woman, it was a low blow to his reputation, one he couldn't handle.

"Don't worry, I took care of it once the news came to me." Translation: the messenger was shot.

Gianni motioned to Shades as if to say, 'well?'

Either Shades could tell Gianni all he knew about Joanne, which truthfully wasn't much, or he could leave Gianni to his own devices. It never bothered him before, strangely it did now. He didn't want Gianni digging into her past, he wanted to find out for himself, see what it was about her that had him losing his cool and holding onto a payment for sunglasses he could buy a hundred times over.

Quickly Shades gave Gianni the rundown.

Pursing his lips, Gianni eyed Shade's bruised eye. "Seems to me that she made one hell of a first impression."

Shades made no comment, which was just as telling as the truth.

"These women seem to be getting the best of you, first the cop, now this girl—"

Shade's voice was razor sharp. "No one gets's the best of me. That cops gonna get hers, and as for Joanne, she's nothing I can't handle."

Where their mistakes made when Gianni raised Shades? Yes, of course. However, Gianni raised him the best way he knew how, and he knew under the ruthless indifference was something soft. Shades would deny it to the end, but that didn't mean a softer side didn't exist. While it wasn't that Gianni didn't want Shades happy, he did, he didn't want him to lose his head, and, well, lose his fuckin' head literally. And given the harshness of tone that Shades had dared to use, he knew that his steel focus was still there, and it was for that reason, and that reason alone, that Gianni conceded.

"Alright," Gianni drawled with a roll of his shoulders. "You say she ain't nothin' you can't handle, she ain't nothin' you can't handle, who am I to say otherwise?"

Suddenly Santino appeared beside their table. "Sorry to interrupt but, Gianni, we have an appointment."

Gianni and Shades stared at each other in silence. In that silence was an entire conversation, one that ended with Gianni's deep sigh. "Remember what I told you," he said rising from his chair, "keep your head down, and your circle in a straight line."

Rising from his own chair, Shades embraced the older man.

"Head down," Gianni repeated when they parted.

"Head down, pop."

Ten minutes later, Shades was seated in the passenger side of his car, watching as the city flew right on by.

"Did he mention the deal?" Quincy piped up.

"Of course."

Switching between radio stations, Quincy asked, "And the girl?"

"Mhm."

"Could be nothing," Quincy suggested.

Shades snickered. "You don't believe that for a minute."

Quincy was silent for a moment. "It's just not like you."

And that was the problem: it wasn't like him; going after a woman who rejected him, using his contacts, his rats in blue, to open a case on her behalf, and tending to her injury himself… It wasn't him.

"There's more to me than meets the eye, Splash."

Finally finding a station he liked, Quincy leaned back more comfortably in the driver seat, the sounds of Camino a Batabano filling the space around them. "That is true, brotha, that is most definitely true. Then again, that's true for everyone, is it not?"

Choosing not to comment, Shades stared out the window. It was just a warning, Quincy and Gianni's words, so why did it feel like a bad omen?

Now we are getting somewhere. I wonder what kind of profession Joanne has, hmm... Oh well, thanks for reading. Be sure to leave a review!