Sundown was Nico's favorite time of day. He loved to observe as the sun departed the sky from a hard days' work. Wisps of orange, red and blue tinted clouds laced together creating colors of their own, giving the fatherly star a worthy goodnight. He felt like an intruder to this nightly ritual. It was too ethereal. He was too lowly. Less than a speck of dust in the vastness of the galaxies, universes, multiverse (or multiverses depending with whom you're speaking). To think the world is virtually nothing. That his actions and the actions of others don't matter in the sequence of time. The suffering of his family could be but a simple novella in a library of histories stretching far beyond human documentation.

Nico refocused on his surroundings. He reminded himself that he was sitting on the beach, the sound of the ocean bombarding the sandy shore overwhelmed nearly all of his senses. All he could smell was the water, see the dark shade of blue reflecting the disappearing light above. His butt was wet from the rising tide. His digits damp from the on-again-off-again submersion. It reminded him of his relationships; Nico would have bouts of depression that drowned him, forcing sadness and despair to course through all parts of his body. Sometimes he couldn't breathe, sometimes he wished he'd stop trying a long time ago. He doesn't blame his friends or partners or family members (save for his dad) for the suffocation. Those that cared showed it and he was grateful. They were his air, his fight, his life jacket, the pull to his push. He lived because of them.

A small turtle caught his eye as it drifted ashore on its back. Nico allowed a slight sympathetic smile to sprout on his face. The small creature struggled to get back on its feet, wobbling on its shell as a boat does on untroubled waters. Nico rose from his spot on the cold, wet sand, lifting the turtle and carefully flipping it right side up. He was surprised by his own gentleness. Even with the most premature of infants his touch had never been so delicate. Either someone carved a cockpit in his mind, controlling his movements, or this was who he really truly was; no one outside the di Angelo-Levesque family ever thought Nico a benevolent soul. Maybe that itself speaks volumes of his character, or more so, the characters of everyone else.

He waded mid-thigh deep in the ocean with the reptile cradled in his arms. Oddly, the wriggling animal was a comfort. Somehow, it didn't trust him, but he was willing to whisper his darkest thoughts, feelings and secrets. Perhaps it was the language barrier; perhaps the difference in species. He hesitated before dipping his arms in the water, letting the little thing swim out of his grasp.

"How long were you going to stand there before I acknowledged you?" Nico continued watching the turtle swim away, not turning when the question escaped his lips. He had known when he snuck out of the house that someone would eventually come looking for him. He didn't know who was behind him, but the tension between he and whomever was searing a cold look into the back of his head helped widdel down the options.

"You're supposed to be at home, boy."

He was hoping it was Bianca again. She had never liked it when he left the house without her knowing, especially when she knew he needed it.

But it had to be him.

Nico steadily back peddled out of the water until he heard his feet sift through the dry sand. His blue jeans were uncomfortably drenched but he could care less.

"And you're supposed to be managing people's money, right Dad? What do people like you call that nowadays? Embezzling I think?"

Nico could hear the rapid stomps of his father's feet crunching and kicking in the sand. The larger man's strong hands clapped on his son's shoulder and from there Nico found himself falling back on the ground. The grains of fine dust found it's way into his eyes and mouth. His younger self wondered what the taste of glorified dirt was like. Unfortunately, now he knew.

Nico's father stood over him, casting a sinister silhouette that one could describe as a hero standing on top of a monster after a momentous victory. Nico saw it as the other way around.

"You will learn to watch your tongue, boy," the guttural groan of his voice laced with malice.

"Or what, Dad?" He spat as he turned on his side, eyeing the bank owner's black and white pinstriped pants. "You'll abandon me? Disown me and my sisters, your daughters; and leave us to live in a hotel, raised by receptionists and bellhops?" He rose, right knee left knee, right foot left foot, until he was staring up eye-to-eye with the beast.

"I'm doing it for your own good, son-"

"Don't you 'son' me." It came out louder than expected, but it packed the punch he was hoping for. "You're a sperm donor. Bianca has more of a parent to me than you ever have."

"And she more of a son."

Nico was ambivalent toward the man's opinion. Surely it hurt that he wasn't as valued as his sister, but he knew that he was the least favorite of the three siblings. Bianca was always more popular than he. She was treated like a queen but he never resented her for it. To be quite honest, he kisses the ground she walks on and he's not afraid to admit it. After their mother died Bianca carried the burden of motherhood way before her time. With their father at work all hours of the day and the servants seeing them as walking paychecks, Bianca had been fed up. If Hazel needed to be escorted to the restroom at ungodly hours of the morning, she would wake up, bleary eyed and numb, and walk the girl through the dark hallways of the oversized mansion. On the day Nico was thrown in the trashcan by a group of snivelling snot-nosed rugrats who thought that picking on people because of their orientation was funny, Bianca gave them a lesson their parents failed to.

After their father told them that he was abandoning them in favor of another woman… well, let's just say he didn't appreciate his bedroom safe being thrown in the ocean; nor his new $300,000,000 private jet.

But he doesn't have to know who did it.

So yes, he pretty much worships his sister, for good reason.

Nico turned away from him. "Leave."

"No! I do not take commands from my own son!"

"I. Am. Not. Your. Son." Each punctuation was more venomous than the last; his final word came out as nothing more than a vitriolic whisper.

The man straightened. "Fine then," he refused to move, to show any sign of weakness or regret. "I do not take orders from my subordinates. My offshoot. My property. My mistake."

Nico didn't react. "Leave, Alecto. Please, sir," he spoke through gritted teeth. The sound of shuffling sand receding in the other direction was when he knew he could breath for the first time in minutes. But then he heard a final statement in the distance:

"You better hope, for your sake, that Bianca can save you from your overwhelming sense of self-righteousness. If she doesn't, pray to God that it doesn't swallow you whole."

Nico could laugh. You got it all wrong old man, he thought. I'm lesser than a speck of dust soon to dissolve in the unending progression of nature. But I'm still one thousand times the man you will ever be.

And there is no God.

Nico awoke from the dream - the memory. That moment happened eight years ago on May 15. His father left two days later. He remembers that it rained around 11 p.m. on both nights.

Nico sat up on the bed, movements slow like unoiled gears. Bianca's been gone for two days now and it's the longest he's ever gone without seeing her. As he walked in the kitchen, Nico envisioned (or recalled, whatever floats your boat) his elder sister sitting on a barstool with her elbows resting on the tall counter top, holding a spool full of cereal (Cinnamon Toast Crunch on good days, Captain Crunch on bad) in one hand, and a newspaper in the other (or, more specifically, the comics; she only really paid attention to Calvin and Hobbes). Almost as if she could sense his presence, she would turn to give him a bright smile and a cheery morning greeting. Despite this, he knew that she was absolutely worn out, having probably gotten home a few minutes prior. Her job required a night owl lifestyle. Dealings rarely went down in the daytime. Since she was a child, it was hard for her to go too long without sleep. Bianca's been pulling all nighters for six years, but she'd never gotten used to the exhaustion.

The pocket of his oversized green basketball shorts buzzed. Nico didn't know who the fuck would call at five in the fucking morning. Whoever it was was about to be torn another asshole.

"I don't know who the fuck this is, but you better make up a good reason to have called so early in the next-"

"Nico?" It was a light, southern soaked drawl. The sound sweet enough to release endorphins.

Oh, shit. "Hey, baby girl. Sorry about that."

Nico could nearly feel Hazel roll her eyes at him. "No worries. Its morning. And I'm older than you."

"Don't care. You're smaller."

"So is Bianca."

"Bianca is scary."

"And so am I when I want to be."

Nico smiled. He sat down on one of the three stools in front of him, unconsciously picking up one of the cigarette butts collected in the glass ashtray next to him and twirling it in his fingers. "What's up?" He asked.

"I just got a call from someone. They said, and I quote, 'we'd like to make arrangements for an event that the di Angelo-Levesque siblings cannot pass up'. They want to meet us at the old church downtown around eight. You know the one."

"Yeah, where ole Mr. Chase was murdered a couple years ago."

"Also the place that went up in flames during a sermon killing, like, twelve people including the pastor." Hazel helpfully added. "What do you think they want?"

He took a moment to stare at the tip of the old smoked cigarette. Charred flakes of ash fell freely from the tip of the blunted stick with every move he made. He wished he had a microscope with him. Things like cigarettes, a complex product made up of an amazing variety of chemicals and substances designed to both incite pleasure, calm, and death all at once, never failed to stimulate his insatiable curiosities. So when a mysterious caller decides to invite he and his sister to a place - that's supposedly holy - built upon morbid history and devastating tragedies, her question was answered before she even asked it.

"Let me get my shower. I'll pick you up from the club in about an hour. We can do breakfast before we head downtown. My treat."

They said their goodbyes and hang up. An arrangement, huh? For the di Angelos, plural? Bianca should be there then, that's good. But wanting to talk to the former heir apparents of a Fortune 500 company?

He'll bring his gun. Just in case.