Rated M

Disclaimer – Not mine, I just make them do bad, bad things.
Much love and thanks to my beta-love, Carrie ZM
and to my pre-readers, Planetblue and Robsmyyummy Cabanaboy
for all the time and energy they've put into this fic.
Also, massive thanks to LaMomo for all the Italian translations.


Thursday, March 15, 1956
12:08 AM

"Your buddy was thrown from the building with one other person." Slick drops the picture of Lay Low's body on the sidewalk. "You friendly with this scumbag, too?"

"Show some respect for the dead."

"Fine. Are you friendly with this less than upstanding gentleman who sells pussy to other lowlifes?"

"I'm not familiar with the deceased."

Glasses slaps down a photo I recognize from the front page of the Sun Times. "What about these despicable bastards?"

My eyes scan over the thirteen water-bloated bodies and I have to hold back my smile. "Can't say I'm familiar with them either."

"Tell me something, Mr. Cullen, why do you think they cut off their hands and feet?"

My mind goes to the thirteen roses Em found on Benny's gravestone with a passage from the book of Samuel.

So at David's command, the young men killed them and cut off their hands and feet, hanging them up near the pool in Hebron.

"I have no idea."


August 1955

It takes ten pallbearers to bring Benny to his final resting place and one bullet to make him a martyr.

Head down with his hat clutched to his chest, my cousin listens while Father Francis reads from the book of Ecclesiastes.

"There is an appointed time for everything, and a time for every affair under the heavens," the priest recites with practiced measure.

Standing here in this cemetery, I swear it feels like just yesterday that I was here at my old man's burial with my head bowed hearing the exact same words.

"A time to be born, and a time to die."

Wiping his eyes, Em inhales sharply at the last word. The poor bastard is beside himself. Heart heavy with grief and a conscience racked with guilt.

I feel neither.

The women drop white roses on the casket as it's lowered into the ground, and the men throw handfuls of dirt. Em holds Benny's weeping mother until everyone's gone, and Father Francis pulls her away from the gravesite.

My cousin looks at me and an understanding passes between us. No one can know of our involvement in this. The two of us will take it to the grave. The three of us if you count Benny, but I'm certain our secret is safe with him.

Turning to leave, he gives the order I've been waiting to hear. "Set up the meeting with Big Marcus."


Three days later, we pull up to a Baptist church in the heart of Bronzeville.

"You sure this is the right address?" Felix asks, eyeing the entrance beneath massive stained glass windows.

Aro throws the car in park. "Yep."

Em slips his hat on his head. "Who holds a sit down in a church?"

"No clue." Tilting my fedora just so, I jerk my chin at the door. "Let's go find out."

Felix and Aro go first, opening the large wooden doors into the lobby. The church bells echo through the sanctuary as we're greeted by two of Marcus's men. And by greeted, I mean patted down.

There in the last pew sits Big Marcus V. Sharply dressed in a light gray suit, the heavy set man stands to face us with his hands clasped in front of him. With a small nod to Em, he speaks. "Good evening."

Pulling his hat off, Em extends his hand. They exchange pleasantries and handshakes for a few moments until Marcus welcomes him to sit. Kneeling down, my cousin does the sign of the cross to the altar before taking his seat.

"What can I help you with, Mr. Cullen?"

"I came here tonight to extend my condolences." Em waves a finger between them."You and me both suffered tremendous losses with the events of last week."

Bowing his head, Marcus closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, but says nothing.

Clearing his throat, Em continues. "I'd been tryin' to make sense of it all and I couldn't, you know? I couldn't figure out what one had to do with the other. So I went lookin' for answers, startin' with the cops." He sneers as he spits out the word. "But of course, they've got nothin'. No info. No leads."

"They never do."

"The fellas down at the morgue were a little more helpful." Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out the casing from the pistol used on Sally and holds it up between them. "This was recovered from one of the bodies."

Grabbing it with his fingers, Marcus inspects the shell. "Is this from a—"

"Makorov."

Closing his fist around the bullet, Marcus grips it tight. His cool, calm manner gone, giving us a good look at the rage we were hoping for. "What else did they say?"

Em's voice lowers. "You don't wanna know."

"Tell me."

"From what they can tell, Laurent went first. Took one to the chest. Benny was next." His voice catches in his throat when he says Benny's name. "He got one to the head. The guy at the morgue suspected they were both dead before the fall."

"Damn." Marcus scrubs his hand from the top of his bald head down over his face and back up again.

"You and I both know that business is business. Bad things happen here and there, but this …"

"This ain't about business no more."

"Exactly," Em rubs his palms together, "which brings me to why I'm here tonight other than to extend my condolences." Staring straight ahead, Em's voice goes cold. "I'm here to let you know that their deaths will not go unpunished. And that those responsible will be handled accordingly."

Marcus's eyes narrow as Emmett meets his gaze.

"I'm here to promise you that there will be retribution. It won't be quick. It'll be drawn out and it'll be vicious."

My cousin lets that hang there for a moment and I hope it's not a misstep. Could be a crapshoot implying that we'll handle it all, but Em seems to think it'll go over better if the idea of teaming up is given as an offer not an order. My cousin may be a bit of a hot-head, but if there's one thing he's good at, it's dealing with people.

"I realize that this reassurance will be of little consolation given the magnitude of your loss, but out of respect I thought you should know the matter will be handled."

"I see."

"However, should you have any suggestions or requests on creative ways to … take care of the matter," Em brings his palm to his chest, "I'm open to hearing it beforehand."

Leaning back in his seat, Marcus spreads his arms across the back of the pew and faces the altar. "This isn't what I was expecting."

"What'd you expect?"

"I thought you were here to stake your claim on his corners."

Em shakes his head. "I'm not interested in stakin' any claims."

Not yet anyway.

After mulling it over for a few minutes, Marcus lolls his head in my cousin's direction. "I appreciate you comin' here tonight, Mr. Cullen. And I'm grateful to you for the information you shared." He lifts one finger. "I do have a request though."

"Name it."

He points to himself. "My crew'll be the ones who remove the problem."

"That doesn't sound like a request."

"Tell me, Mr. Cullen. You n' your friend—"

"Benny."

Marcus nods. "Benny. How far back you go?"

"Four, maybe five years."

"That's a lot of years." Marcus smiles and crosses his arms over his chest. "Me n' Lay Low go back twenty-nine. As long as I can remember, me n' his scrawny ass have been runnin' these streets, stirrin' up trouble." Lost in his memories for a few moments, the smile fades. "Benny was your friend. Lay Low was my brother."

"I understand, but … I don't know. Doesn't feel right sittin' back while you handle it."

"You want your pound of flesh."

Nodding slow, Em props his elbows on the back of the pew. "I want more than a pound."

Marcus laughs. "Don't we all."

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Shoot."

"You always do business in a church?"

"Yep. Don't see no reason to shine up my horns and call it a halo." He thumbs toward a stained glass window with the image of Christ carrying the cross. "He knows what I do. I'm already a sinner. No sense in bein' a liar, too."

"Good point."

"So?"

Em sighs. "I don't know."

"When you walked into this church tonight, Mr. Cullen, you came out of respect, offerin' up a solution. Now out of respect, I'm offerin' you the same." His voice drops lower. "I can give you the resolution you're needin', but more than that, I'm offerin' you deliverance."

"All due respect, I'm not after deliverance."

"You're after blood."

"I'm after vengeance. Swift and sick and bloody."

Marcus's lips turns up into a smirk. "The righteous will rejoice when he sees the vengeance."

"Psalms, right?"

"It is, but do you remember what the righteous does upon seeing the vengeance?"

Em faces him. "He will bathe his feet in the blood of the wicked."

"Mr. Cullen, I'll give you your vengeance."

"And you'll bring me the blood of the wicked?"

Marcus leans forward. "Every. Last. Drop."

"One condition."

"What's that?"

"Make sure it's a headline like this city has never seen before."

"Mr. Cullen," Marcus extends his hand, "I assure you it'll be biblical."

They shake on it and just as Em's about to put his hat on to leave, he turns. "How will I know it's done?"

"Next week, when you go pay your respects to your friend's gravesite, I'll make sure to pay mine as well."


"They want to what?" Paulie asks, looking at Felix like he said the Pope has tits.

Taking a seat beside me on a crate in front of the barbershop, Felix puts his hand up. "Dye the Chicago River green for St. Patrick's Day, hand to God, that's what the plumber said."

"Get outta here. They can't dye the river green." Paulie waves a dismissive hand then touches his temple, speaking loud over the people around us waiting for the parade to start. "Those Irish, they're all crazy, the lot of 'em."

"Easy now," Felix points at me, "his missus is half-Italian, half-Irish."

"His missus is half-Italian, half-ball-breaker."

The fellas around us laugh and Paulie ducks when I go to smack his hat off.

"What? I'm just jok—"

"God damn it!" Some neighborhood kid shouts in front of us, smacking his ball cap on his thigh and looking down at his snow cone splattered on the sidewalk.

"Hey!" Paulie yells and jerks his thumb at the statue of Saint Rocco being carried up the street for the annual feast. "Watch ya' mouth. Show Saint Rocco some respect."

"Sorry, mister."

Checking his pockets and coming up empty, the little guy pouts and turns to walk away.

"Hey kid, hold on," I say, standing and reaching into my pocket.

Maybe I'm feeling nostalgic today. I can't help but think back to when my old man was alive because the Feast of Saint Rocco was one of his favorite days of the year. We'd do mass as a family, then he'd be one of the guys carrying the 400 lbs. statue of Saint Rocco through the streets. Once it was back safely at the church, we'd celebrate with our friends in the neighborhood. All the kids would rush up to my dad and he'd pass out nickels and tell them to go pray.

The youngster eyes me suspiciously. "Yeah?"

"Here." I give him a quarter. "Go grab yourself another one."

His eyes go big. "Gee, mister, that's too much!"

"I'm good for it." I grin. "Keep the change."

He smiles. "Thanks, mister!"

"You're welcome." Bits catches my eye from the ice cream cart across the street and gives me a wink. "Do me a favor while you're at it."

Clutching the quarter to his chest, he raises a skeptical brow. "What?"

I nod my head toward Bella. "See that girl over there?"

He lowers his voice. "The one in the blue dress or the woof she's talking to?"

I look over my shoulder to make sure Paulie didn't hear him call his wife a woof. "Blue dress."

"Yeah, I see her."

"Go tell her I said she's the prettiest girl here."

"You sweet on her or somethin'?"

"Yep."

He nods. "I'll put in a good word for you."

I smirk at the little wiseass as he flips the quarter and stuffs it in his pocket. "Thanks, kid."

"The name's Alec," he slaps his cap back on his head, "but my friends call me Al."

"Take care, Al."

I go back to sitting in front of the barbershop with the fellas, listening to them break each other's balls and watch the people celebrate in the streets. It's just like I remember – the music, the food, the fireworks along the water. The only difference this year is that by the end of the evening, the Chicago River will run red with the blood of our enemies.


A/N: I'm a fic rec fail once again this week. My eyes have been glued to the Weather Channel, watching Hurricane Irma. My heart goes out to those affected by the hurricanes, both Harvey and Irma. So scary.

Carrie and I are enjoying your responses to the questions each week, so we have another one for you – rereads. What's your go-to reread? The fic you never get tired of. Me? I reread all of ItzMegan's fics at least once a month. #obsessionconfession

Thanks to everyone who's read, reviewed, followed, fav'd, rec'd, tweeted, or lurked this fic! I'll see you next Thursday!