o()o

Author's Note: Wow, what an amazing response to the last chapter. Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to read and review. At the moment, your feedback is pretty much all that's spurring NotG on, I appreciate all the feedback and encouragement!
Nifty Fact of the Day:The bit about the Listerine is based on a true story involving my own brother and our great-gran. I still wince whenever I think about it. Ouch!
Special Thanks: To Kizume A.W. for her amazing beta skills, it's been a while since I properly thanked her for her patience and talent. You're the best sweetie, I don't tell you that enough!

o(12)o

There was no mistaking that the two were brothers.

No more than seven or eight, they were fighting loud enough to draw the attention of other people in the parking lot. One dark and one light, each brother was standing on tiptoe, shouting at the top of his lungs, small fists clenched.

Flicking away his cigarette butt, Connor leaned against the rotten wood of Danae's patio and sent a white swirl of breath and smoke curling toward the sky. He watched the boys with a smile, waiting for his twin to join him.

A solid shove sent the darker-haired boy stumbling backwards, shouting angrily even as he landed hard on his rear end.

"Looks like they're about ta kill each other." The grin was evident in Murphy's voice as he offered Connor his pack of cigarettes, a smoke already between his lips.

"Aye."

The first punch was thrown, the lighter-haired brother tumbled to the ground and the argument turned into a brawl.

"Think we ought ta break it up? Grab each one by an ear like Ma used ta do?"

Connor shook his head, chuckling. "They'll figure it out soon enough."

Cupping his hand around the end of his cigarette, Murphy made a quiet noise of satisfaction as he drew in his first lungful of nicotine. "My bet's on the scrawny one then. Lad looks like he has spunk."

"Ye're on."

Chuckling softly, Murphy pried a chunk of paint off of the decaying patio. "Do ye remember that fight we had at Gran's that summer when we were kids?"

Connor snorted, retrieving himself another smoke and flicking his lighter to life. "Which one?"

"The one when I shoved ye inta her briar patch."

The wince that accompanied the memory was involuntary. By the time he'd managed to untangle himself from the thorny plants he'd been scraped and bloodied from head to toe, and had carried the scars for that entire summer. "No forgetting something like that or the fact that Gran used fuckin' Listerine ta clean out the scratches."

Murphy choked on the drag he was in the middle of taking. "Christ, I'd forgotten about that. Daft fuckin' woman."

"I think the word Ma used was resourceful."

"Daft," his twin insisted and Connor bobbed his head in agreement.

"Aye."

The darker brother hit the asphalt face first, and both Connor and Murphy winced sympathetically.

"Speaking of resourceful: how are we goin' ta work the sleepin' arrangements when Maire gets out o' the hospital on Wednesday?"

His twin's words sent a bittersweet jolt of emotion through Connor and he managed to shrug. "We'll figure something out."

Eight months after being shot, Maire was being released from the hospital in two days. And Connor was certain he'd never been such a wreck.

When he had first discovered that she had no memory, he had been devastated. But now that she was starting to recall things, her memories coming in the from of terrifying nightmares, Connor found himself more disconcerted than when she'd had no memories at all.

How long would it be before he had to tell her the awful truth: to confess to her that the torture and pain of the last eight months had been his fault?

Murphy had forgiven him without a second thought, absolved him even before he had finished sinning. But Maire? How could he ask forgiveness for a transgression she didn't remember?

Across the parking lot, another punch was thrown by a small fist and Connor wondered which was worse, the blow, or the hell the boy was going to catch when his Ma saw the hole that had been torn in his pants.

Exhaling a white plume into the chilly air, Murphy followed it with a succession of perfect smoke rings, each smaller than the last.

"That'll get his arse paddled," he said conversationally, tilting his head toward the boy, who had gotten to his feet and was launching himself at his counterpart. "Ye're scared shitless aren't ye?"

The observation provoked a surprised laugh from Connor. "Fuckin' scary bastard ye are."

Murphy shook his head, "Just a twin is all."

"Fuckin' scary twin," Connor amended, laughing as he dodged his brother's fist.

Across the parking lot, a woman that could only be the boys' ma had arrived, effectively ending the fight as she dragged the two apart, looking between them as though she were trying to decide whose head to chew off first.

The lighter-haired boy drew the short straw and Murphy chuckled, watching them. "Looks like I win."

"Come on," he said, "The news is on."

o()o

"Its seems as though the elusive Saints of South Boston have picked up their mantle once again and are wasting no time getting down to business, bringing the total body count so far to four. WGTV will be following the story on scene as it develops."

Elbows on his knees, Murphy leaned forward, scowling at the fetching brunette newscaster.

"Enthusiastic bastards," Connor commented, bottle of beer hanging from between his fingertips.

"Aye."

The news reporter gestured and the screen split in two. "We're taking you live to the home of the late Yuri Tarasov. Sensitive viewers may want to turn away. "

"Holy fuck," Connor muttered, bringing a hand to cover his mouth, eyes widening.

Murphy followed his brother's gaze and felt his stomach drop.

"Christ."

Blood was everywhere, pooling on the floor, smeared on the walls; everywhere. Had they left the same carnage behind after their missions?

The reporter continued on. "Tarasov is said to be a soldier in the growing Russian Mafia that has taken root here in Boston. . ."

Murphy remembered crashing through the heating duct on their first job, bound to his twin with a length of Connor's stupid-fucking-rope, upside down and more panicked than he could ever remember being in his life as he fired again and again, delivering each of the men in the room with a bullet and a spray of blood.

It had been a mess, gore everywhere but it still seemed to pale in comparison with the images that were filling the TV screen at that moment.

"What the fuck is this, then?" Murphy gestured at the screen with his beer bottle.

Connor had gone pale. "Shut it," he whispered.

"Conn?"

His twin held up a silencing hand. "I said fuckin' shut it, Murph."

A gust of wind ruffled the reporter's hair and the camera refocused on the scene behind her, a mess of yellow tape bathed in red and blue flashing lights.

"In a chilling twist to an already gruesome story, police have just told WGTV reporters that the body showed signs of torture, broken bones, contusions, and multiple lacerations.

Murphy fell silent, his gaze flitting between the horrible scene on the television, and his brother, who sat ashen and stone-faced.

"Torture?" the word felt thick and foreign on his tongue. It was a word that was thrown around easily, taken for granted: listening to Connor snore with a sinus cold: torture, shopping with Danae: torture. A bar that didn't serve Guinness: torture. But this was the real deal, blood and bone and pain and the mere thought of it made his blood run cold.

Connor remained silent; the diminutive muscle in his jaw flexing and Murphy shot his twin a sidelong frown.

"Just like me," his twin finally whispered and Murphy's stomach gave a nauseated lurch.

"Bullshite." The word came out more forcefully than he intended and he covered it with a swallow of beer.

Twins or no, there were plenty of things that defined them as individuals. Murphy liked spicy food, Connor hated the smell of candle wax, Murphy had freckles smattered over his shoulders, Connor played a wicked game of table tennis. Murphy had a thing for brunettes.

Connor had lost his mind and butchered and tortured half a dozen people last spring.

Even now, Murphy could barely wrap his mind around the fact.

Sucking in a deep breath through his nose, Connor mashed a hand against his face before rubbing at his eyes. "Jesus Christ."

Half explicative, half prayer, the words were accompanied by both brothers crossing themselves.

"What the fuck do we do?"

"We've just received word from the South Boston Police Department that Tarasov wasn't the only victim of this brutal crime. Detectives have just discovered the bodies of Angelica Tarasov, Yuri's wife and their ten year old son, Petya also shot and showing signs of torture."

The bottle of beer slipped through his fingers, spilling across the floor before coming to rest under Danae's coffee table, and Murphy was certain that his heart had stopped with it.

A ten-year old boy.

Fuck.

o()o