A/N: I'm so sorry I updated this late, but I was on holiday in Inverloch (a very wild, beautiful seaside town in south-east Gippsland) and I had no internet. I promise I'll update more regularly from now on!

Natalia strode into her sister's bakery, stopped in the middle and glared at everyone.

As expected, they filed out nervously.

Yekaterina was behind the counter, in an apron that barely stretched over her chest, flour streaked over her hands and cheeks. "Tasha," she reproved her younger sister. "They were customers!"

Natalia ignored the comment. "Have you heard?" she demanded.

Yekaterina gave a single, ragged sigh, closed her eyes, and nodded. "Matthew Williams is dead," she recited. "Tasha, I know. Everyone knows. Tell me something else."

Natalia cocked her head. "Why? Why don't you want to talk about it?"

"Because it's horrible. And you and Vanya know something about it, probably, or were involved somehow. The less I know, the happier I'll be."

Natalia loved her sister (although not the way she loved Ivan; the soul-wrenching, heart-piercing way she loved Ivan was nothing like any human had ever felt before), but she had to say it: Yekaterina was a baby. A crybaby, a wimp; if Ivan hadn't bought her the bakery, she never would have had the initiative to start a business. Yekaterina couldn't stomach the thought of the family business, she couldn't even look at a gun without flinching, all she'd ever done was bake bread and knit things, and in short, Natalia thought her useless.

However, Natalia had come here to fill her sister in on the facts and have Yekaterina do her a little favour in return, so she kept herself from rolling her eyes and nodded curtly. "Shall we go upstairs, sister?"

Yekaterina nodded, untying her apron and quickly walking to the door. She turned the sign to 'Closed' and locked the door with a key taken from her impressive bust: she then turned and looked nervously at her little sister and extended an arm to a door on the left of the counter, which Natalia knew opened to a flight of stairs that led to her sister's cosy apartment. As they walked up the stairs, Natalia tried to analyse her sister's behaviour. Yekaterina was different today; usually she was all smiles and hugs and "Here, darling Tasha, I just baked some bread, would you like some?"; but now she was twitchy and jumpy and her eyes seemed sad. Natalia tried to think why. Unfortunately, she couldn't for the life of her think of an event in Yekaterina's simple, happy life that would cause her to act this way, so she merely filed the observations away in her mind and sat down on the couch in Yekaterina's apartment.

Her sister went straight to the kettle to make a cup of tea. From where she stood, she attempted to make small talk. "Have you seen Liz lately?" she asked nervously. "I'm sure she'd love to see you. She's very upset about the divorce."

Natalia ignored this and got straight to the point.

"Matthew Williams died at ten-thirty on Tuesday night. He was stabbed eight times with a knife and about three of the wounds would have been fatal."

Natalia watched Yekaterina recoil in horror. It was rather interesting, watching her sister blink like that and her mouth stretch out and a huge shudder go through her body. Encouraged by this reaction, Natalia continued. "We don't know who did it. It certainly isn't us. Brother has sent me to find out who did it, because it would be very easy for someone to pin the blame on us."

"On you?" asked Yekaterina, pressing a hand to her mouth. "You mean, the police will think you and Vanya are responsible?"

"Possibly."

"Tasha, what have you done?"

"Business is being conducted as usual. We may have made some... arrangements, but we hold all the power there. Unfortunately, we don't have enough influence in the police force to keep us out of the whole Williams business. Wang has a huge network of police contacts, so Brother is negotiating with him to make sure our business is not disturbed."

Yekaterina poured boiling water into two mugs and shook her head back and forth. "Why are you telling me this? I don't want to know."

"Because there's something Brother would like you to do for us."

There was a sudden stillness in the apartment. Natalia peered at her sister, who busied herself with dunking teabags in the mugs. "Tasha..."

Natalia had fully expected this.

"It's the least you can do for Brother," she said calmly, as Yekaterina began to sweat. "After all, he has bought you this bakery. He sends you money every month to support you. He keeps you safe and protected."

"V-Vanya wouldn't do this to me. If I wasn't prepared... he wouldn't make me do this..."

"He could withdraw his support."

"Tasha, please... I don't like what you do. I hate the business. I have done everything I could to stay out of it, because it frightens me and I'm not bloodthirsty like you. I love you, Tasha, and I love Vanya, but I do not love your work, if you insist on calling it that."

"It's really very simple, sister. All you have to do is get information from the customers. I want to know what they know."

Yekaterina blinked. "You don't want me to smuggle -"

"No. I want you to spy on those who come to your bakery and report back to me. If you must, talk to them yourself. Men like you. They like your breasts and smile. Be friendly and make them talk."

"Do you have to be so vulgar -"

"You will make them talk."

Yekaterina gulped and gave a little sigh. She lowered her eyes. "I'll do my best, Tasha."

Natalia flashed a rare smile. "Thank you, sister. Brother will be so pleased." She adjusted the bow in her platinum blonde hair. "Now, how about that tea?"

"What happened?" he asked.

She was standing in the kitchen, hands curled around a mug of coffee, her back to him. Long hair tied back messily, an old T-shirt and jeans covered in dust (how had so much accumulated over the years?), swaying back and forth on the balls of her feet. "What did happen? What are you talking about?"

Damn it all, he berated himself. Why did you have to bring this up? He was a fool, a stupid, narcissistic fool, and yet he couldn't see how this had come to be a reality.

"Us," he said quietly. "Why are we this? What happened to us?"

He knew exactly what she was going to say. It came out just as he knew it would, her voice strained and soft, exhaustion in every syllable.

"There is no 'us' anymore, Roderich."

Everything was falling into place exactly as he expected, and he couldn't stand it. Elizaveta's boxes stacked messily outside the front door, Elizaveta's clothes removed from her half of the closet, Elizaveta's face turned away from his as if she couldn't bear to look at him anymore. As if he was vile, disgusting, low. He couldn't bear this hell much longer, and yet he had lived in a valley of cold, one-word sentences and loveless nights for a year now.

"You know what?" she said suddenly. "It doesn't feel real. All of this, even all those fights that never happened because you wouldn't speak to me, and all the things I broke, and even the way we made a mockery of marriage... Roderich, I didn't think I'd divorce you. I tried to put off moving out because I didn't think we'd actually have the guts to get a divorce."

He didn't know what to say. "Eliza..."

"No," she said, and he knew she was smiling a little, the way she did when she was hurt, and sad, and lonely. "It's over now."

He didn't know whether to cry or feel relieved.

There was a knock at the door, and all he could bring himself to say was, "That'll be the moving people."

She put down the mug and turned to face him. Her eyes were not red, and her face was perfectly composed. He could see her right fist clench and shake, the only outward sign of her pain. "I'll get the door."

The boxes were taken out quickly enough, and Elizaveta's furniture was moved in about half an hour. Time seemed to run very slowly and very fast all at once; he felt the air thicken around him. It was as if Elizaveta and he were moving in liquid. Her hair swimming behind her, she turned to face him, and there was a little patch of agony on her cheek.

"I guess this is goodbye," she said slowly, and before he could answer her, the door had shut gently and he could hear the rumble of the truck moving out of the driveway, followed by Elizaveta's little Mazda 3.

Only that night, when he looked in the mirror, did he realise how much he cried.

Tino picked up his phone with a long-suffering sigh. "Mathias?"

"I've figured out what I'm going to do!" crowed the Dane.

Muffling a sigh, Tino gritted his teeth and waited for it.

"I'm going to solve Matthew Williams' murder!"

Well, of all the things Tino could picture Mathias being, a detective was not one of them.

"Don't you think that's a little, uh, insensitive?"

"Whaddaya mean? I've already called Feliks and he wants to help. And if you and Berwald helped out, well, Berwald could be a really terrifying interrogator and scare the hell out of the criminals, and you could just... help, I guess? I'm gonna call Lukas next. Hey, could you put me onto Berwald?"

Tino cursed internally and called out for his husband, who was... baking, it seemed. "Berwald? Mathias wants to talk to you."

He heard an intelligible mutter from the kitchen, before the Swede stalked out and took the phone. "Wh't is 't?"

Tino took the opportunity to escape; Berwald had a very low tolerance for Mathias. What was Mathias thinking, anyway? He was sure the police had the situation under control. The last thing anyone needed was a hyped-up Mathias and Feliks sneaking around, looking for clues. They'd most likely sabotage the whole murder investigation.

Wait-

Why exactly did Mathias want to investigate? What possible interest would he have in the murder of a nurse, especially when the murder had the gangs all riled up? Any sane man would stay out of the whole business, and Mathias did surprisingly, display some vestige of sanity. What if Mathias did want to sabotage the murder investigation? It would explain some of his strange behaviour for the past few weeks. And come to think of it, Mathias had mentioned going out on the night of Williams' death...

Tino shook his head and decided he'd been reading too many murder mystery novels.

The call was somewhat unexpected. A private number, of course. Yao picked up the phone and waited for the person on the end of the line to speak first. The voice, although somewhat muffled, was unmistakable.

"Wang?"

"Braginsky," muttered Yao. Technically, the two gangs were at peace, but their bloody past and Braginsky's unpredictable nature set his teeth on edge. And the Williams murder changed everything - who on earth was responsible? Yao didn't really believe Jia Long and Mei were behind it, to be honest. And Kiku wouldn't consider the murder honourable, and Yong Soo was too... oh, whatever he was, he wasn't a killer.

So if it wasn't his gang... who was it?

The answer was on the other end of the line.

"I would like you to consider a business proposal," stated Ivan abruptly.

Yao blinked in surprise. A business proposal? Braginsky's gang dealt in weapons, everybody knew that. So, what was he planning? Yao could do with a weapons deal, but he knew he'd be bound to help Braginsky from then on, and once you got in, you never got out. And he didn't want to be caught up with the Russian now, especially since that gang was undoubtedly the cause of Williams' death.

"Why?" he asked cautiously. Best to play it cool for now.

There was a chuckle on the other end. "Because I like you, Mr. Wang. And we've been enemies for too long, da?"

"Whatever you say," muttered Yao, internally groaning. Oh, he wasn't ready for this. Too much stress, too much police investigation... Yao wished he could go back to the old days.

"You're right. Whatever I say. Wang, you don't trust me. That's the mark of an intelligent man."

What the hell was Braginsky on about?

"Get to the point."

More laughter from the other end. "You will meet my agent at the soccer oval at 2 am tomorrow. Perhaps we can discuss business later."

"I'll send someone."

"No, Wang. I want you."

"Why would I walk into a trap as obvious as that?"

"Because it's so obvious. And if you don't turn up, the deal's off. I might offer it to Arthur Kirkland, for all you know."

Yao drew a breath. Shit. Not Kirkland. Anyone but Kirkland.

"I -" he spoke, but there was a beep on the end of the line and Braginsky hung up the phone.

Very calmly, Yao put down the phone and stood up. He stuck his head out of the door and politely asked his secretary to send Kiku Honda up to him. Then, ever so softly, he walked to the window. Clenching his fist, he pulled back and let fly. The window exploded in shards of glass.

Yao took a deep breath. There. Much better. His knuckles were bleeding and sore, but the anger was gone - well, most of it. At least he could ask for Kiku's advice as to what to do. (Although he'd have to go; he knew already that he'd go the second Braginsky said so.)

There was a knock on the door. "Mr. Wang? Are you in here?"

Yao smiled and instantly relaxed. Kiku, his second-in-command. If anyone, he could trust Kiku.

Right?

Antonio Fernández Carriedo carried a bunch of files in one arm and a little bottle of tomato juice in the other. He walked up six flights of narrow, creaking stairs, humming to himself. Oh, he hoped to get a good night's sleep tonight. He was so sick of getting the damn calls, waking him up at unholy hours. They should really do something about that.

Antonio liked to think of himself as a good man. He paid his employees plenty, volunteered at local fairs, played guitar in the local pub band, was friendly to everyone he met, even Lars, who despised him. He was a firm believer that a smile and a positive attitude could fix anything. People liked Antonio. Kids were drawn to his warm, outgoing nature. He was the sort of man who would be happy in any situation. Lovino had once told him that he 'made the best of things.' Antonio liked to think of it as a compliment.

Of course, Antonio's kindness had gotten him mixed up in something so big, so terrible that he deliberately blocked it out of his thoughts during the day to keep him sane.

At night? Well, as the light was fading, he could hardly keep his mind off it.

Antonio walked along the corridor to his apartment. It was a shabby little place, because he gave his employees far too much pay, but it would do. He, Gilbert and Francis had painted the walls a lime green, not too bright, rather pretty in Antonio's opinion. There was a couch (it smelt faintly of beer, thanks to Gilbert) and a small TV and a little kitchenette. There was a bedroom just large enough to hold a bed and a desk. There was a tiny, tiny bathroom that crammed in a shower, a sink and a toilet, all so ridiculously jammed together that you had to squeeze past the sink to get to the shower; and in order to get to the door, you had to clamber over the toilet. The apartment was not comfortable, or particularly clean. But it was Antonio's. And he was proud.

He tucked the files under the arm holding the tomato juice in order to dig his keys out of his pocket. He stuck the silver key in the lock and turned it, jiggling it around a little as he did so (the door was temperamental). With a firm shove, it opened and Antonio, tired from a long day at the tax office, stumbled into the apartment, putting his files down and taking a swig of tomato juice. Ahhh. Much better.

He checked his phone for texts: nothing. Good. He dug behind the back of the couch and pulled out the remote, old and battered with the back missing so the batteries were on the verge of falling out. The TV flickered to life. A recap of the Whales vs Bears game was playing; nothing worth watching, but the background noise made him feel less alone. The dusk was quiet and darkening quickly. Antonio preferred the bright sunlight. He lifted up the tomato juice bottle to take another sip, and that's when he heard the gunshot.

It shattered the peace and quiet instantly. Sure, gunshots weren't exactly uncommon in this part of the city, but it was so sudden and so close that it froze Antonio's blood. He felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Who were they shooting at? Who was they? What was going on? Should he get out of here?

The second gunshot shattered his window.

He flung himself to the floor, shaking. The shot had come from somewhere to his left, the glass tinkling as it hit the ground. They'd found him. They knew, somehow - No. That was impossible. They couldn't... could they? "Hello?" he shouted, fear racing through his veins. "Who's there?"

There was a dreadful silence.

Then Antonio heard the door burst open and he was up, snatching a knife from the kitchen bench and frantically stabbing at thin air - where were they? Where were his attackers? Eyes wide open, he spun around and found his arm forced behind his back, the knife clattering to the floor. "Help!" he screamed, eyes rolling back in terror. "Help me! Dio, please, someone help me!" He couldn't see a thing; they'd forced him to the ground and oh God, there was a gun to the back of his head and he'd never been so scared before. Never felt this kind of fear before. They put a cloth to his mouth and he realised it was chloroform. For some reason, his thoughts drifted to Lovino Vargas. Tears seemed to melt down his cheeks as he prayed to Jesus, God, Mary, anyone who might listen, but it was too late. His eyes were drifting shut as the chloroform stilled his mind. I'm so sorry, he thought, and then -

Blackout.

Dun dun dun! Why has Antonio been kidnapped? Any ideas on the murderer?