The sun settles low in the sky by the time we make our way out of the Vargas' residence, Alfred insisting that Mrs. Jones would be threatening to "mount our asses on the wall" if we didn't get Amelia back home by dusk. Lovino agrees wholeheartedly, but not for the same reason, considering he threatened to mount my ass on the wall if I didn't leave as soon as possible. I'm sure he's forgiven me for imposing on their home, but I'm not so sure he's forgiven my heritage.

That's not uncommon around here, really. I made a comment to Gilbert about changing our names to something American once. He told me I was a "damn fool if I thought that was going to change anything," and "someone has to be proud of being German, and I'll be damned if it isn't us." I can't say I understand him, but I've never brought it up again. Regardless, I'm not much of a "Luke Smith".

We make it halfway to the apartment before my stomach flutters unpleasantly. Feliciano saw us out as we left, sending us along with a quickly made pizza and a loaf of bread, and we all smiled uncomfortably as Lovino grimaced and hesitantly checked the amount of flour they had left. Alfred said we'd have to make a point to stop by with diner food this week. I'm not sure if Lovino's the sort of person who'd eat diner food, much less something I'd bring him, but I offer to go with Alfred when the time comes. God knows we'd be back there soon.

More importantly (and the reason for the uncomfortable wavering in my abdomen), was what Feliciano said to me before I left. Amelia and Alfred were a few feet down the sidewalk when he called me back to the door, and whispered quietly in my ear, "Please don't get yourself hurt for me."

I was quiet for a moment, but shook my head. "We're doing this for a client." As if that was an answer. An excuse. A reassurance.

Feliciano's brow furrowed at that. "You trust them enough not to lead you into…?" He can't seem to finish that, but I know what he's getting at.

"Not entirely," I said, and I stop myself before asking "What's the worst that could happen?" because I know what the worst is and I've spent days thinking about the worst of this and right now, Feliciano doesn't need to hear someone telling him that the worst doesn't exist.

He bit his lip. "You really don't need to do this."

"No," I said, "No, I do."

Apparently not the answer he wanted. Or perhaps it was. He's hard to read.

Feliciano bid me goodbye after that. I think there was a part of him that wanted to pull me back inside. It's hard to swallow when I realize that, and Alfred's been glancing over at me every few seconds, waiting to ask a question I already know is coming.

"What did Feliciano want?"

There it is.

I manage a swallow, "Nothing, really."

Alfred's shoe scuffs the sidewalk. "Didn't seem like nothing."

"Aren't Italians known for making something out of nothing?" I reply, turning over the loaf of bread in my hands, "We're nearly home."

Something tells me I've broken some sort of rule with Alfred just now, and he's going to treat me coldly until I give him details. Really, I don't know what else to say but "He's worried we might get ourselves killed for him, and also might have a thing for me," which is taboo between this group for a multitude of reasons, not that I think Alfred would think any less of me for one of those things, but he just might for bringing up the possibility of death to Amelia.

It's funny, really, how illogical the brain gets in moments of stress, when you're expected to be the most logical. I can't stop myself from replaying the closeness between us prior to a whisper about death, and if that's not illogical, I don't know what is.

Arlovskaya is waiting on the steps for us as the diner comes into focus. I can see Alfred's shoulders stiffen, and he grabs Amelia by her own. "I haven't been waiting long," she says, as if that's supposed to reassure us.

Mrs. Jones appears from the door. "Alfred, Ludwig, Miss. Arlovskaya came by just a moment ago to speak with you an-oh! She's still here! Well. That solves that. Amelia, come inside, dear, it's getting cold."

Amelia says, "Okay, Ma!" but Alfred and I know before we even manage a look at her that she's going to give us Hell for this later.

They disappear behind the doorway before Arlovskaya speaks, "You visited the Vargas' today."

The fact that this is a statement and not a question unnerves me. Alfred says, "Yes," but I say, "How did you know?" and I can see the confusion begin on Alfred's brow.

"Informant," Arlovskaya says, and horribly, I can feel my earlier pity for her disappear. They've been spying on the Vargas' this entire time.

I glare at her, and the bite of guilt hits me when I see her back away warily. "I am paying you for this, remember," she says, "Protecting you."

"Can't trust us enough to carry out our investigations undisturbed?" I ask.

Her eyes sadden, "You know I cannot stop them myself," she says, but doesn't add that she'd like to. I grit my teeth.

I know. Deep down, I knew that from the start of this conversation. I can't quell my misplaced anger at this situation, however. But I do bite my tongue. Alfred says, "What do they think?"

"Brother did not take kindly to being called "big-nosed" and "fat"," she says, staring at her nails, "Says maybe Lovino person did it. I tell him no, but he says maybe we should pay Lovino another visit."

Alfred scoffs, "You know he's all bark and no bite."

Oddly, Arlovskaya seems to disagree. "He has no right to insult my brother."

"Your brother is part of the same group who happens to threaten the safety and lives of Lovino's family," I spit, "He's got plenty of right."

A dangerous look comes over Arlovskaya, "He and Katyusha are the only family I have. You know nothing of where we come from. Where did your promise of helping me go?"

"I know nothing of where you come from?" I round on her, "Do you have any idea...Do you know what my brother and I went through to get to America? Do you see us involved in murders? Do you see us threatening families to get what we want?"

"I see you eating plenty and living in safe home," Arlovskaya says plainly, "If you would like to say more, I have no problem giving you something to complain about."

Part of me wants to ask if that's a threat, but she looks more like a wounded dog than anything, and I shut my mouth. Alfred seems relieved. "I promise to do what I can to keep Vargas' safe," she says quietly, "Do not think I want them dead."

Alfred says, "Of course we don't think that!" but I'm too stubborn to agree.

I'm being an idiot about this, I know. But really, that only makes me angrier.

"Where are you going to go from here?" Arlovskaya asks.

Alfred looks at me. "I figured Lud had that planned out."

I shrug my shoulders, "I've got something." A lie. My thoughts are focused on finding that brother of hers and letting him know just what intimidation feels like.

"Good," Arlovskaya says, "I will check up on you soon. If you want to come see me, use this address."

She hands Alfred a card. Vaguely, I wonder if she's asking us to come speak to the family, but then my mind drifts to pinning them to walls and beating sense into them...and I shake my head. I'm not a violent man, but I'll be damned if I don't wish I was sometimes.

"Thanks, Nat," Alfred says with a smile, and I can see Arlovskaya straighten in surprise.

She nods courteously, eyes Alfred with curiosity, and makes her way down the sidewalk.

Alfred sighs, "What a woman."

"Flirting with the enemy, Jones?" I say, holding the door open as he makes his way past me, rolling his eyes.

"You're one to talk."

He's silent for the rest of the trip inside, and we don't say our usual goodnights as we make it to our rooms. As I swing the door open to my room, Gilbert's voice greets me from the couch. I had forgotten about him not going into work today.

"You're still awake?" I ask, but I regret my words when I catch the look on his face.

"Been out having fun?" Gilbert says, and that terrible parental stare scans me for information.

No, but I can't say that honestly. "Yes. We took Amelia out for pizza," I say, and start towards my bedroom.

Gilbert stops me, "You're not going anywhere until you tell me what the Hell is going on."

"There's leftovers downstairs if you're really that burned up about this," I try, but Gilbert only stares me down, and I find myself seated next to him in the armchair.

"So?"

I sigh. "You realized the restaurant wouldn't be open on Sunday didn't you?"

"Catholic school tends to push those things," Gilbert says, "Are you going to tell me what's going on or not?"

"Do you want the short version or the long version?" I ask, slumping forward into my hands.

He puts his feet up on the coffee table. I grimace. He shoots me a look. "I've got time."

I fill Gilbert in on Arlovskaya, and his face looks darker than I've ever seen when I tell him who we're working for, exactly, and that I've gotten Amelia and Alfred roped into this, kids of the family who took us in, and I find that the parts about the Vargas are stuck in my throat by the time I get the rest of the story out. Gilbert doesn't move for a long time. When he does, it's slow, as if he's gained fifty years. I feel guilty for it.

"Wasn't the job at the diner enough for you?" Gilbert says, disappointment hanging in his voice, "You know why I kept you from the factory, and you went out to find a job that could get us all killed. I thought you were smarter than this, Ludwig."

Full-name basis. Not a good sign.

"It wasn't supposed to turn out this way," I explain, though I can't really say I want to, "Amelia and I found pets, lost jewelry, things like that."

"And you didn't turn that woman down?" Gilbert asks, "You didn't tell her 'I can't put the lives of myself and my family at stake for your goddamn problems'? You just went along with it?"

My lips tighten. He's right, and I can't argue with him, because God knows I think the same things he's preaching. Gilbert's head droops. "You were the one Opa said he wouldn't have to worry about. Ludwig 'Perfekt' Beilschmidt. Off getting into organized crime because he doesn't know how to say no to someone in need."

"It's 'Wilfried', actually," I mutter.

Gilbert looks at me, and I can't tell if he's holding back a smile or a grimace. "I knew keeping my baby brother from the factory wasn't going to work. You always gotta involve yourself some how, don't you?"

I shrug, "It's more or less like the world finds ways to involve me."

"Yeah, well," Gilbert says, flicking his lighter for a cigarette, "Learn to tell the world 'no'. You're not invincible. That's your big brother's job."

He puffs and offers me a light. I decline. He knows I hate that habit of his.

"So?"

Gilbert cocks an eyebrow at me. "What?" I say, assuming this is going to be another round of "Go and tell those mafia members you can't play with them anymore."

"Why were you at the Vargas' today?" he says, as if it's an obvious question (which it very well is considering I had kept from answering it earlier).

I let out a long, heavy sigh that I was unaware I had built up. "They think one of the brothers is a suspect."

"What?" Gilbert asks incredeously, "What? The Vargas brothers? We're talking about the same Vargas' aren't we? Nearly twins? Ones got the disposition of a rabid dog? The other's a bit of a putz but he's-"

"Kind."

"Niedlich."

I raise an eyebrow at Gilbert.

He shrugs, "Stating the facts."

"He isn't a 'putz,'" I say, defensively, "He's…"

Well, he's a bit of a putz.

"There's nothing wrong with that," Gilbert says, rubbing out his cigarette, "I'm just saying. Could probably lift him with one arm. Might as well start dressing like a woman, if you want my honest opinion."

"And you're calling someone else a putz," I say.

"He'd make a nice housewife."

I grimace, "Gilbert."

"Anyway, they think it's Lovino or something, right?" Gilbert says, flicking his cigarette into the ash tray.

"Feliciano," I say, and Gilbert holds down a laugh.

"Those Braginsky's are losing their grip," he says, with a snicker, "You know, that Ivan guy who works at the factory with me came up today and asked me if I'd like to 'join his family', like it was a prize. Punched him right in that huge ass nose of his."

"You mean you mumbled 'no' and had to sit down after your nose started bleeding from stress," I say.

"Details," Gilbert shrugs, looking all too put-off by my comment.

"We're going to see the Braginsky's this week," I say, avoiding his gaze.

He glowers, as expected. I was avoiding this. "No, you're not."

"We are if we're going to solve this murder."

Gilbert straightens. "To Hell with the murder, Ludwig! It was just some idiot kid that stuck his nose where it didn't belong! You don't need to be involved!"

I swallow.

"They'll kill Feliciano."

Gilbert pulls out another cigarette. "Yeah? And why should we care? I get that you want to play some theatrical hero, but you need to leave the dangerous business to me. What am I supposed to tell Opa when you wind up getting yourself killed? 'Whoops, sorry Opa! Guess I'm alone here in America on the streets again because my baby brother went and got himself and the Jones' kids offed. Hope I make it till December!'"

"I know what I'm doing," I snap, a bit too harshly, "You can't stop me from helping them. You're at work all the time."

"Yeah," Gilbert puffs, "To keep us fed. Damn me. Clearly I'm the one who fucked up."

I can't argue with him, even if I wanted to. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah."

"I'm still continuing with this investigation."

Gilbert takes a long drag. "I know."

Silence.

Gilbert is the second person who refuses me a good night that evening.